Sleepless I am
Because I am in love
Fatigue and frustration overwhelm
When day brings not my beloved to me
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In love with the lake
The swan longs to stay longer
But ice covers the lake
And the swan flies
With no regrets
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Even if meditated upon
The face of my lama comes not to me
But again and again comes to me
The smiling face of my beloved
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Pink clouds
Hide frost and hailstorsms
He who is a half-monk
Is a hidden enemy of the dharma
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Yama the mirror of my karma
Residing in the realm of death
You must judge and grant me justice
Here, while alive, I had no justice
ill on a journey
my dreams wander
over a withered moor
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the setting moon
the thing that remains
four corners of his desk
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don't imitate me
we are not two halves
of a muskmelon
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turn this way!
I too feel lonely
late in autumn
Guardian Unlimited Haiku
The Chimney Sweeper
A little black thing among the snow:
Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe!
Where are thy father & mother! say!
They are both gone up to the church to pray.
Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil'd among the winters snow:
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe.
And because I am happy, & dance & sing,
They think they have done me no injury:
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King
Who make up a heaven of our misery.
Only the dreamer venoms all his days,
Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve!
I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart's affection and the truth of Imagination
What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth,
Whether it existed before or not.
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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism.
The pity is that we must wonder at it,
As we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts. Not a select party.
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Though the most beautiful creature were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk;
though the carpet were of silk,
the curtains of the morning clouds;
the chairs and sofa stuffed with cygnet's down;
the food manna,
the wine beyond claret,
the window opening on Winander Mere,
I should not feel rather my happiness would not be so fine,
as my solitude is sublime.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in Water. - Keat's epitaph
