The birth and death of the leaves are the rapid whirls of the eddy whose wider circles move slowly among stars.

Power said to the world, “You are mine.”
The world kept it prisoner on her throne.
Love said to the world, “I am thine.”
The world gave it the freedom of her house.

The mist is like the earth’s desire.
It hides the sun for whom she cries.

Be still, my heart, these great trees are prayers.

The noise of the moment scoffs at the music of the Eternal.

I think of other ages that floated upon the stream of life and love and death and are forgotten, and I feel the freedom of passing away.

The sadness of my soul is her bride’s veil.
It waits to be lifted in the night.

Death’s stamp gives value to the coin of life; making it possible to buy with life what is truly precious.

The cloud stood humbly in a corner of the sky.
The morning crowned it with splendour.

The dust receives insult and in return offers her flowers.

Do not linger to gather flowers to keep them, but walk on, for flowers will keep themselves blooming all your way.

Roots are the branches down in the earth.
Branches are roots in the air.

The music of the far-away summer flutters around the autumn seeking is former nest.

Do not insult your friend by lending him merits from your own pocket.

The touch of the nameless days clings to my heart like mosses round the old tree.

The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.

God is ashamed when the prosperous boasts of his special favour.

I cast my own shadow upon my path, because I have a lamp that has not been lighted.

Man goes into the noisy crowned to drown his own clamour of silence.

That which ends in exhaustion is death, but the perfect ending is in the endless.

The sun has his simple rode of light.
The clouds are decked with gorgeousness.

The hills are like shouts of children who raise their arms, trying to catch stars.

The road is lonely in its crowd for it is not loved.

The power that boasts of its mischiefs is laughed at by the yellow leaves that fall, and clouds that pass by.

The earth hums to me today in the sun, like a woman at her spinning, some ballad of the ancient time in a forgotten tongue.

The grass-blade is worthy of the great world where it grows.

Dream is a wife who must talk,
Sleep is a husband who silently suffers.

The night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear, “I am death, your mother. I am to give you fresh birth.”

I feel the beauty, dark night, like that of the loved woman when she has put out the lamp.

I carry in my world that flourishes the worlds that have failed.

Dear friend, I feel the silence of your great thoughts of many a deepening eventide on this beach when I listen to these waves.

The bird thinks it is an act of kindness to give the fish a life in the air.

“In the moon thou sendest thy love letters to me,” said the night to the sun, “I leave my answers in tears upon the grass.”

The Great is a born child; when he dies he gives his great childhood to the world.

Not hammer-strokes, but dance of the water sings the pebbles into perfection.

Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave.
The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.

To be outspoken is easy when you do not wait to speak the complete truth.

Asks the Possible to the Impossible,
“Where is your dwelling place?”
“In the dreams of the impotent,” comes the answer.

It you shut your door to all errors, truth will be shut out.

I hear some rustle of things behind my sadness of heart— I cannot see them.

Leisure in its activity is work.
The stillness of the sea stirs in waves.

The leaf becomes flowers when it loves.
The flower becomes fruit when it worships.

The roots below the earth claim no rewards for making the branches fruitful.

The rain evening the wind is restless.
I look at the swaying braches and ponder over the greatness of all things.

Storm of midnight, like a giant child awakened in the untimely dark, has begun to play and shout.

Thou raisest your waves wainly to follow the lover, O sea, thou lonely bride of thy storm.

“I shamed of my emptiness,” said the Word to the Work.
“I know how poor I am when I see you,” said the Work to the Word.

Time is the wealth of change, but the clock in its parody make it mere change and no wealth.

Truth in her dress finds facts too tight.
In fiction she moves with ease.

When I traveled to here and to there, I was tired of thee, O road, but now when thou leadest me to everywhere, I am wedded to thee in love.

Let me think that there is one among those stars that guides my life through the dark unknown.

Woman, with the grace of your fingers you touched my things and order came out like music.

One sad voice has its nest among the ruins of the years.
It sings to me in the night, “I loved you.”

The flaming fire warns me off by its own glow.
Save me from the dying embers hidden under ashes.

I have my stars in the sky.
But, oh, for my little lamp unlit in my house.

The dust of the dead words cling to thee.
Wash thy soul with silence.

Gaps are left in life through which comes the sad music of death.

The world has opened its heart of light in the morning. Come out, my heart, with your love to meet it.

My thoughts shimmer with these shimmering leaves and my heart sings with the touch of this sunlight; my life is glad to be floating with all things into the blue of space, into the dark of time.

God’s great power is in the gentle breeze, not in the storm.

This is a dream in which things are all loose and they oppress.
I shall find them gathered in thee when I awake and shall be free.

“Who is there to take up my duties?” asked the setting sun.
“I shall do what I can, my master.” Said the earthen lamp.

By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower.

Silence will carry your voice like the nest that holds the sleeping birds.

The Great walks with the Small without fear.
The Middle keeps aloof.

The night opens the flowers in secret and allows the day to get thanks.

Power takes as ingratitude the writhing of its victims.

When we rejoice in our fullness, then we can part with our fruits with joy.

The raindrops kissed the earth and whispered, “We are thy homesick children , mother, come back to thee from the heaven.”

The cobweb pretends to catch dewdrops and catch flies.

Love! When you come with the burning lamp of pain in your hand, I can see your face and know you as bliss.

“The leaned say that your lights will one day be no more,” said the firefly to the stars.
The stars made no answer.

In the dusk of the evening the bird of some early dawn comes to the nest of my silence.

Thoughts pass in my mind like flocks of ducks in the sky.
I hear the voice of their wings.

The canal loves to think that rivers exist solely to supply it with water.

The world has kissed my soul with its pain, asking for its return in songs.

That which oppresses me, is it my soul trying to come out in the open, or the soul of the world knocking at my heart for its entrance?

Thought feeds itself with its own words and grows.

I have dipped the vessel of my heart into the silent hour; it has filled with love.

Either you have work or you have not.
When you have to say, “Let us do something”, then begins mischief.

The sunflower blushed to own the nameless flower as her skin.
The sun rose and smiled on it, saying, “Are you well, my darling?”

“Who drives me forward like fate?”
“The myself striding on my back.”

The clouds fill the water cups of the river, hiding themselves in the distant hills.

I spill water from my water-jar as I walk on my way, very little remains for my home.

The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark.
The small truth has words that are clear; the great truth has great silence.

Your smile was the flowers of your own fields, your talk was the rustle of your own mountain pines, but your heart was the woman that we all know.

It is the little things that I leave behind for my loved ones— great things are for everyone.

Woman, thou hast encircled the world’s heart with the depth of thy tears as the sea has the earth.

The sunshine greets me with a smile.
The rain, his sad sister, talks to my heart.

My flower of the day dropped its petals forgotten.
In the evening it ripens into a golden fruit of memory.

In am like the road in the night listening to the footfalls of its memories in silence.

The evening sky to me is like a window, and a lighted lamp, and a waiting behind it.

He who is too busy doing good finds no time to be good.

I am the autumn cloud, empty of rain, see my fullness in the field of ripened rice.

The hated and killed and men praised them.
But god in shame hastens to hide its memory under the green grass.

Toes are the fingers that have forsaken their past.

Darkness travels towards light, but blindness towards death.

The pet dog suspects the universe for scheming to take its place.

Sit still, my heart, do not raise your dust.
Let the world find its way to you.

The bow whispers to the arrow before it speeds forth— “Your freedom is mine.”

Woman, in your laughter you have the music if the fountain of life.

A mind all logic is like a knife all blade.
It makes the hand bleed that uses it.

God loves man’s lamp-lights better than his own great stars.

This world is the world of wild storms kept tame with the music of beauty.

“My heart is like the golden basket of thy kiss,” said the sunset cloud to the sun.

By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.

The cricket’s chirp and the patter of rain come to me through the dark, like the rustle of dreams from my past youth.

“I have lost my dewdrop,” cries the flower to the morning sky that has lost all its stars.

The burning log bursts in flame and cries, — “this is my flower, my death.”

The wasp thinks that the honey-hive of the neighboring bees is too small.
His neighbours ask him to build one still smaller.

“I cannot keep your waves,” says the bank to the river, “let me keep your footprints in my heart.”

The day, with the noise of this little earth, drowns the silence of all worlds.

The song feels the infinite in the air, the picture in the earth, the poem in the air and the earth; for its words have meaning that walks and music that soars.

When the sun goes down to the West, the East of his morning stands before him in silence.

Let me not put myself wrongly to my world and set it against me.

Praise shames me, for I secreatly beg for it.

Let my doing nothing when I have nothing to do become untroubled in its depth of peace like the evening in the seashore when the water is silent.

Maiden, your simplicity, like the blueness of the lake, reveals your depth of truth.

The best does not come alone.
It comes with the company of the all.

God’s right hand is gentle, but terrible is his left hand.

My evening came among the alien trees and spoke in a language which my morning stars did not know.

Night’s darkness is a bag that bursts with the gold of the dawn.

Our desire lends the colours of the rainbow to the mere mists and vapours of life.

God waits to win back his own flowers as gifts from man’s hands.

My sad thoughts tease me asking me their own names.

The service of the fruit is precious, the service of the flower is sweet, but let my service be the service of the leaves in its shade of humble devotion.

My heart has spread its sails to the idle winds for the shadowy island of anywhere.

Men are cruel, but Man is kind.

Make me thy cup and let my fullness be for thee and for thine.

The storm is like the cry of some god in pain whose love the earth refuse.

The world does not leak because death is not a crack.

Life has become richer by the love that has been lost.

My friend, your great heart shone with the sunrise of the East like the snowy summit of a lonely hill in the dawn.

The fountain of death makes the still water of life play.

Those who have everything but thee, my God, laugh at those who have nothing but thyself.

The movement of life has its rest in its own music.

Kicks only raise dust and not crops from the earth.

Our names are the light that glows on the sea waves at night and then dies without leaving its signature.

Let him only see the thorns who has eyes to see the rose.

Set the bird’s wings with gold and it will never again soar in the sky.

The same lotus of our clime blooms here in the alien water with the same sweetness, under another name.

In heart’s perspective the distance looms large.

The moon has her light all over the sky, her dark spots to herself.

Do not say, “It is morning”, and dismiss it with a name of yesterday.
See it for the first time as a newborn child that has no name.

Smoke boasts to the sky, and Ashes to the earth, that they are brothers to the fire.

The raindrop whispered to the jasmine, “Keep me in your heart for ever.”
The jasmine sighed, “Alas,” and dropped to the ground.

Timid thoughts, do not be afraid of me.
I am a poet.

The dim silence of my mind seems filled with crickets’ chirp— the grey twilight of sound.

Rockets, your insult to the stars follows yourself back to the earth.

Thou hast led me through my crowded travels of the day to my evening’s loneliness.
I wait for its meaning through the stillness of the night.

This life is the crossing of a sea, where we meet in the same narrow ship. In death we reach the shore and go to our different worlds.

The stream of truth flows through its channels of mistakes.

My heart is homesick today for the one sweet hour across the sea of time.

The bird-song is the echo of the morning light back from the earth.

“Are you too proud to kiss me?” the morning light asks the buttercup.

“How may I sing to thee and worship, O sun?” asked the little flower.
“By the simple silence of thy purity,” answered the sun.

Man is worse than an animal when he is an animal.

Dark clouds become heaven’s flowers when kissed by light.

Let not the sword-blade mock its handle for being blunt.

The night’s silence, like a deep lamp, is burning with the light of its milky way.

每天都打呀？好勤奋哦~！！支持！！要向你学习！：）！

Around the sunny island of life swells day and night death’s limitless song of the sea.

Is not this mountain like a flower, with its petals of hill, drinking the sunlight?

The real with its meaning read wrong and emphasis misplaced is unreal.

Find your beauty, my heart, from the world’s movement, like the boat that has the grace of the wind and the water.

The eyes are not proud of their sight but of their eyeglasses.

I live in this little world of mine and am afraid to make it the least less.
Lift me into thy world and let me have the freedom gladly to lose my all.

The false can never grow into truth by growing in power.

My heart, with its lapping waves of song, longs to caress this green world of the sunny day.

Wayside grass, love the star, then your dreams will come out in flowers.

Let your music, like a sword, pierce the noise of the market to its heart.

The trembling leaves of this tree touch my heart like the fingers of an infant child.

The little flower lies in the dust.
It sought the path of the butterfly.

I am in the world of the roads.
The night comes, open thy gate, thou world of the home.

I have sung thy songs of the day.
In the evening let me carry thy lamp through the stormy path.

I do not ask thee into the house.
Come into my infinite loneliness, my lover.

Death belongs to life as birth does.
The walk is in the raising of the foot as in the laying of it down.

I have learnt the simple meaning of thy whispers in flowers and sunshine— Teach me to know thy words in pain and death.

The night’s flower was late when the morning kissed her, she shivered and sighed and dropped to the ground.

Through the sadness of all things I hear the crooning of the Eternal Mother.

I came to your shore as a stranger, I lived in your house as a guest, I leave your door as a friend, my earth.

Let my thoughts come to you, when I am gone, like the after glow of sunset at the margin of starry silence.

Light in my heart the evening star of rest and then let the night whisper to me of love.

I am a child in the dark.
I stretch my hands through the coverlet of night for thee, Mother.

The day of work is done. Hide my face in your arms, Mother.
Let me dream.

The lamp of meeting burns long, it goes out in a moment at the parting.

One word keep for me in thy silence, O world, when I dead, “I have loved.”

We live in this world when we love it.

Let the dead have the immortality of fame, but the living the immortality of love.

I have seen thee as the half-awakened child sees his mother in the dusk of the dawn and then smiles and sleeps again.

I shall die again and again to know that life is inexhaustible.

While I was passing with the crowd in the road I saw thy smile from the balcony and I sang and forgot all noise.

Love is life in the fullness like the cup with its wine.

They light their own lamps and sing their own words in their temples.
But the birds sing thy name in thine own morning light, for thy name is joy.

Lead me in the center of thy silence to fill my heart with songs.

Let them live who choose in their own hissing world of fireworks.
My heart longs for thy stars, my God.

Love’s pain sang round my life like the unplumbed sea; and love’s joy sang like birds in its flowering groves.

Put out the lamp when thou wishest.
I shall know thy darkness and shall love it.

When I stand before thee at the day’s end thou shalt see my scars and know that I had my wounds and also my healing.

Some day I shall sing to thee in the sunrise of some other world, “I have seen thee before in the light of the earth, in the love of man.”

Clouds come floating into my life from other days to longer to shed rain or usher storm but to give colour to my sunset sky.

Truth raises against itself the storm that scatters its seeds broadcast.

The storm of the last night has crowned this morning with golden peace.

Truth seems to come with its final word, and the final word gives birth to its next.

Blessed is he whose fame does not outshine his truth.

Sweetness of thy name fills my heart when I forget mine— like thy morning sun when the mist is melted.

The world loved man when he smiled.
The world became afraid of him when he laughed.

God waits for man to regain his childhood in wisdom.

Let me feel this world as thy love taking form, then my love will help it.

Thy sunshine smiles upon the winter days of my heart, never doubting of its spring flowers.

God kisses the finite in his love and man the infinite.

Thou crossest desert lands of barren years to reach the moment of fulfillment.

God’s silence ripens man’s thoughts into speech.

Thou wilt find, Eternal Traveller, marks of thy footsteps across my songs.

Let me not shame thee, Father, who displayest thy glory in thy children.

Cheerless is the day, the light under frowning clouds is like a punished child with traces of tears on its pale cheeks, and the cry of the wind is like the cry of a wounded world. But I know I am traveling to meet my friend.

Tonight there is a stir among the palm leaves, a swell in the sea, Full Moon, like the heart-throb of the world. From what unknown sky hast thou carried in thy silence the aching secret of love?

I dream of a star, an island of light, where I shall be born and in the depth of its quickening leisure my life will ripen its works like the rice-field in the autumn sun.

The smell of the wet earth in the rain rises like a great chant of praise from the voiceless multitude of the insignificant.

That love can ever lose is a fact that we cannot accept as truth.

We shall know some day that death can never rob us of that which our soul has gained, for her gains are one with herself.

God comes to me in the dusk of my evening with the flowers from my past kept fresh in his basket.

When all the strings of my life will be tuned, my Master, then at every touch of thine will come out the music of love.

Let me live truly, my Lord, so that death to me become true.

Man’s history is waiting in patience for the triumph of the insulted man.

I feel thy gaze upon my heart this moment like the sunny silence of the morning upon the lonely field whose harvest is over.

I long for the Island of Songs across this heaving Sea of Shouts.

The prelude of the night of commenced in the music of the sunset, in its solemn hymn to the ineffable dark.

I have scaled the peak and found to shelter in fame’s bleak and barren height. Lead me, my Guide, before the light fades, into the valley of quiet where life is harvest mellows into golden wisdom.

Things look fantastic in this dimness of the dusk— the spires whose bases are lost in the dark and tree tops like blots of ink. I shall wait for the morning and wake up to see thy city in the light.

I have suffered and despaired and known death and I am glad that I am in this great world.

There are tracts in my life that are bare and silent. They are the open spaces where my busy days had their light and air.

Release me from my unfulfilled past clinging to me from behind making death difficult.

Let this be my last word, that I trust thy love.