the bronze bird platform

A lovely young girl brings up a jar of wine.
The autumnal scene extends over a thousand miles.
The stone horse lies in the early mist —
How can I describe the sadness?
The singing is now faint,
Because a wind comes up out of the trees.
Her skirt, long and heavy, is pressed against the floor,
And her tearful eyes are fixed on the flowers on the

Li Ho

autumn scene

Under the crescent moon
The earth looms hazily —
Buckwheat flowers.

Matsuo Bashō


On the shores of Texas
Between Mobile and Galveston there is
A great garden filled with roses
There is also a villa
Which is one huge rose

A woman passes often
In the garden alone
And when I pace the road edged with lime trees
Our eyes meet

As she is a Mennonite
Her rose trees and her garments have no buttons
My jacket’s missing two
That lady and I observe almost the same rite

Guillaume Apollinaire

the crocuses

The meadow is deadly though fair in autumn
Cows grazing there
Slowly are poisoned
There crocuses color of eye-ring color of lilac
Bloom your eyes like these flowers
Like their rings and like autumn are violet
My life from your eyes slowly takes poison

School children noisily come
Wearing jackets playing harmonicas
To pick crocuses that are like mothers
Daughters of their daughters they are color of your eyelids
Fluttering like flowers in a crazy wind

Softly the cowherd sings
While cows slow and lowing abandon
Forever meadows so evilly flowered by autumn

Guillaume Apollinaire

the circle

We all leave; but everything remains.
We do not return again to our port.
Those who have died have gone for ever.
The flower that falls decomposes into mud.

Eventually, in another form, the essence of the flower
finds its garden in that mud.
When we die, we shall go through the air,
with uncertain course, in the arms of the great Everything.

We shall return, but without ourselves.
The immortal substance changes form
and some go so that others may come.

The cosmic avenue is circular,
yet without moving outside its pattern
our lives fuse with Life.

Emilio Frugoni


Weary from travel
I seek a lodging for the night—
Wistaria flowers.

Matsuo Bashō

unique tranquility

A monk sipping
His morning tea, and it is quiet—
Chrysanthemum flowers.

Matsuo Bashō

the ways of nature

Toward the sun’s path
Hollyhock flowers turning
In the rains of summer.

Matsuo Bashō

bed of green leaves

Why, Jatir, do you dally, and move your feet
so much at the expense of my love’s voice?
Already the night breeze, rustling the leaves,
murmurs in the crests of the woods.

Beneath the crown of the lofty mango tree,
I carefully covered our pleasant bed
with a tender carpet of soft leaves,
where the pale moonlight plays amidst flowers.

A short while ago the flower of the tamarind opened –
now the jasmine gives a sweeter aroma!
Like a prayer of love, like these prayers,
the wood breathes in the silence of the night.

The moon shines in the sky, stars shine,
perfumes fly with the breeze,
in whose magic flow is breathed
a gasp of love, better than life!

The flower which blooms at dawn
lives for one course of the sun alone, no more.
I am that flower, still awaiting
a sweet ray of sun that gives me life.

Be it through valleys or hills,
on water or land, wherever you may go,
whether day or night, my thoughts go after you;
I have never had another love: you are mine, I am yours!

My eyes have never seen other eyes,
my lips have never felt other lips,
and no hands but yours, Jatir, have pressed
my feather skirt about my waist.

The flower of the tamarind lies half-open,
now the jasmine gives a sweeter aroma;
and my heart, too, like these flowers,
breathes a finer perfume near to the night!

You are not listening to me, Jatir! Nor do you respond
even too late to my love’s voice, calling you in vain!
Tupã! The sun is breaking through! May the morning
breeze brush the leaves from the useless bed!

Antônio Gonçalves Dias

floridum mare

The harvest overflowing the multi-colored plain rolls,
undulates, and unfurls in the cool wind cradling it;
and the profile of some harrow on the distant sky
seems like a ship pitching and raising a dark bowsprit.

And beneath my feet the sea, right to the purple west,
sky-blue or pink or violet or ultramarine or
the white horses scattered by the ebb,
becomes infinitely green, like a huge meadow.

The gulls, too, following the flood,
flew in whirlwinds with joyful cries
towards the ripe com swollen by a golden tide;

While from the land a honeyed breeze spread
flights of butterflies over the flowery ocean
after the desire of their winged ecstasy.

José-Maria de Heredia