. . .In our great fireside chair;
Between the lines, my lips could touch
    Her April-scented hair.

How very fond I was, to think
    The printed poems fair,
When close within my arms I held
    A living lyric there!




THE MOON-SHEEP The moon seems like a docile sheep,
She pastures while all people sleep;
But sometimes, when she goes astray,
She wanders all alone by day.

Up in the clear blue morning air
We are surprised to see her there,
Grazing in her woolly white,
Waiting the return of night.

When dusk lets down the meadow bars
She greets again her lambs, the stars!




MAR QUONG, CHINESE LAUNDRYMAN I like the Chinese laundryman:
He smokes a pipe that bubbles,
And seems, as far a. . . Read More