And shaded lanterns and a guitar and my machine-that-sings.

There are ornaments of jade and lacquer,
And the bamboo pipe and the hap-heem that I have laid aside,
And the written leaves containing my verses.
But there are no writing tables, no ink and no brushes.
For now my verses will be written upon her brow.



Footsteps

As I lie on my pallet at night
I hear from the street the sound of passing footsteps;
And I can sort and name these passing footsteps.
There are the truculent steps of the seeker after trouble,
There are the fearful feet of those who are not at ease
In the implacable streets.
There are the fugitive feet of crime,
And the solemn reassuring tread of big policemen;
And the interrupted steps of the revellers,
And the fleet feet of those who have purchased trouble.

But those that tread most heavily on my heart
Are the light and lingering footsteps of tired young women.



Making a Feast