on the grasshopper and cricket

The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s — he takes the lead
In summer luxury, — he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

John Keats

Advertisements

winter

The cold is bitter –
Awaking in the night, I hear
Cries of waterfowl:
Are they unable to shake off the frost
That has settled thickly on their wings ?

Shuishu, IV

dream in wintertime

All winter we’ll wander in a red wagon
With cushions of blue.
Nice and warm. With a nest of creepy kisses
Just for us two.

You shut your eyes and won’t look out the window
Where shadows lurk:
Hordes of black wolves and black demons and nightmares
Inhabit the dark.

And then in panic suddenly you feel
A little kiss, like a scared spider, crawl
Across your cheek …

You turn to me to help you find the beast,
And of course I promise to do my best,
If it takes all week …

Arthur Rimbaud

moonstone

The cold beauty of the moonlight fades as though
from lack of luck in love;
for no more is it met by laughter of the waterlilies;
its darling moonstone, overlaid by frost,
no longer sweats with yearning;
nor is it welcomed by the eyes of lovers
between their bouts of love.

Laksmidhara

winter

Darkening sea:
a mallard’s call
sounds dimly white.

Matsuo Bashō

december

Evening shadows steal
across and up the folding screen –
a passing winter shower.

Roka

winter dream

To *** Her

In Winter, we’ll travel in a small pink coach
With blue cushions,
Well installed, mad kisses nesting
In cosy corners.

You’ll close your eyes, not to see through the glass
The leer of dark evening,
Snarling monster, droves of black demons,
Packs of black wolves.

Then you’ll feel something scratch against your cheek…
A little kiss, brief as a startled spider,
Will run up your neck…

You’ll bow your head and say: ‘Find it for me!’
–And we’ll take the time it takes to find that creature
–Which loves to travel…

Arthur Rimbaud