The Soughing Wind
Some leaves hang late, some fall
before the first frost—so goes
the tale of winter branches and old bones.
Spring
O my grey hairs!
You are truly white as plum blossoms.
Play
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am,
by what devious means do you contrive
to remain idle? Teach me, O master.
Lines
Leaves are greygreen,
the glass broken, bright green.
The Poor
By constantly tormenting them
with reminders of the lice in
their children’s hair, the
School Physician first
brought their hatred down on him,
But by this familiarity
they grew used to him, and so,
at last,
took him for their friend and adviser.