When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't hoed, And shout from where I am, 'What is it?' No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit.
Amongst the flowers I am alone with my pot of wine drinking by myself; then lifting my cup I asked the moon to drink with me, its reflection and mine in the wine cup, just the three of us; then I sigh for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along with me never saying a word; with no other friends here, I can but use these two for company; in the time of happiness, I too must be happy with all around me; I sit and sing and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I dance, it is my shadow that dances along with me; while still not drunk, I am glad to make the moon and my shadow into friends, but then when I have drunk too much, we all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on these who have no emotion whatsoever; I hope that one day we three will meet again, deep in the Milky Way.
I know it is early morning, And hope is calling aloud, And your heart is afire with Youth's desire To hurry along with the crowd. But linger a bit by the roadside, And lend a hand by the way, 'Tis a curious fact that a generous act Brings leisure and luck to a day.
I know it is only the noontime -- There is chance enough to be kind; But the hours run fast when noon has passed, And the shadows are close behind. So think while the light is shining, And act ere the set of the sun, For the sorriest woe that a soul can know Is to think what it might have done.
I know it is almost evening, But the twilight hour is long. If you listen and heed each cry of need You can right full many a wrong. For when we have finished the journey We will all look back and say: 'On life's long mile there was nothing worth while But the good we did by the way.'
At the end of the row I stepped on the toe Of an unemployed hoe. It rose in offense And struck me a blow In the seat of my sense. It wasn't to blame But I called it a name. And I must say it dealt Me a blow that I felt Like a malice prepense. You may call me a fool, But was there a rule The weapon should be Turned into a tool? And what do we see? The first tool I step on Turned into a weapon.
Up ahead it’s white. Snow animal, I’m running at your back. I’ve failed to tell you I’ve been hungry all this time, to tell you I’ve been searching for you, like meat, like water. All my life, I’ve distanced myself. As if to know you was to drown. As if to find you I’d usher myself further from what is real. I’ve been adrift along the threads of white leading me out beyond an imagined frame. I’ve untied myself, uncuffed the arms and neck. I didn’t know I was hurt like that. I didn’t know there was a force pulling me downward toward a bedrock, lulling me to sleep. You are the one escaping, you are the one breaking free. I understand your astonishing dash to freedom, done with the estranged wind, done with frost and storm, orchids curling outward beyond grief. The road widens to glory. The road disappears