Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

After How Many Years

Florence Ayscough and Amy Lowell, trans.

Spring

THE WILLOWS near the roadside rest-house are soft with new-burst leaves.

I saunter along the river path,

Listening to the occasional beating of the ferry drum.

Clouds blow and separate,

And between them I see the watch towers

Of the distant city

They come in official coats

To examine my books.

Months go by;

Years slide backwards and disappear.

Musing,

I shut my eyes

And think of the road I have come,

And of the spring weeds

Choking the fields of my house.

Summer

The rain has stopped.

The clouds drive in a new direction.

The sand is so dry and hard that my wooden shoes ring upon it

As I walk.

The flowers in the wind are very beautiful.

A little stream quietly draws a line

Through the sand.

Every household is drunk with sacrificial wine,

And every field is tall with millet

And pale young wheat.

I have not much business.

It is a good day.

Ha! Ha!

I will write a poem

On all this sudden brightness.

Autumn

Hoar frost is falling,

And the water of the river runs clear.

The moon has not yet risen,

But there are many stars.

On the opposite bank

Autumn lamps are burning in the windows.

I am sick,

Sick with all the illnesses there are.

I can bear this cold no longer,

And a great pity for my whole past life

Fills my mind.

The boat has started at last.

Oh, be careful not to run foul

Of the fishing-nets!

Winter

I was lonely in the cold valleys

Where I was stationed.

But I am still lonely,

And when no one is near

I sigh.

My gluttonous wife rails at me

To guard her bamboo shoots.

My son has neglected

The vegetables.

Oh yes,

Old red rice can satisfy hunger,

And poor people can buy muddy, unstrained wine

On credit.

But the pile of land-tax bills

Is growing;

I will go over and see my neighbor,

Leaning on my staff.