Ji-ji, again ji-ji,
Mulan faces the door, weaving.
You can’t hear the sound of the loom’s shuttle,
You only hear Daughter’s sighs.

They ask Daughter who’s in her thought,
They ask Daughter who’s on her memory.
“No one is on Daughter’s thought,
No one is on Daughter’s memory.”

Last night I saw the army notices,
The Khan is calling for a great force.
The army register is in twelve scrolls,
and every scroll has Father’s name.

Father has no adult son,
Mulan has no older brother.
“Wish to buy a saddle and horse,
and serve in Father’s place.”

In the East Market she buys a steed,
In the West Market she buys a saddle and saddle blanket,
In the South Market she buys a bridle,
In the North Market she buys a long whip.

At dawn she bids farewell to Father and Mother,
In the evening she camps on the bank of the Yellow River.
She doesn’t hear the sound of Father and Mother calling for Daughter,
She only hears the Yellow River’s flowing water cry jianjian.

At dawn she bids farewell to the Yellow River,
In the evening she arrives at the summit of Black Mountain.
She doesn’t hear the sound of Father and Mother calling for Daughter,
She only hears Mount Yan’s nomad horses cry jiu-jiu.

She goes ten thousand miles in the war machine,
She crosses mountain passes as if flying.
Northern gusts carry sound of army rattles,
Cold light shines on iron armor.

Generals die in a hundred battles,
Strong warriors return after ten years.
On her return she sees the Son of Heaven,
The Son of Heaven sits in the ceremonial hall.

Merits are recorded in twelve ranks
And grants a hundred thousand strong.
The Khan asks her what she desires.
“Mulan has no use for a high official’s post.
I wish to borrow a ten-thousand mile camel
To take me back home.”

Father and Mother hear Daughter is coming
They go outside the city wall, supporting each other.
When Older Sister hears Younger Sister is coming
Facing the door, she puts on rouge.

When Little Brother hears Older Sister is coming
He sharpens the knife, quick, quick, for pig and sheep.
“I open the door to my east room,
I sit on my bed in the west room,”

“I take off my wartime gown
And put on my old-time clothes.”
Facing the window she fixes the cloudlike hair on her temples,
Facing a mirror she dabs on yellow flower powder

She goes out the door and sees her comrades.
Her comrades are all shocked.
Traveling together for twelve years
They didn’t know Mulan was a girl.

“The male rabbit’s feet kick up and down,
The female rabbit’s eyes are bewildered.
Two rabbits running close to the ground,
How can they tell if I am male or female?”

— Unknown – Ode to Mulan

Blame not my tears, love, to you has been given
The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows;
The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from Heaven,
And shines from your heart on this life and its woes.
Blame not my tears, love, on you her best treasure
Kind nature has lavished, oh, long be it yours!
For how barren soe’er be the path you now measure,
The future still woos you with hands full of flowers.
Oh, ne’er be that gift, love, withdrawn from thy keeping!
The jewel of life, its strong spirit, its wings;
If thou ever must weep, may it shine through thy weeping,
As the sun his warm rays through a spring shower flings.
But blame not my tears, love, to me ’twas denied,
And when Fate to my lips gave this life’s mingled cup,
She had filled to the brim, from the dark bitter tide,
And forgotten to pour in the only sweet drop.

— Frances Anne Kembel, An Apology

Tang of fruitage in the air;
Red boughs bursting everywhere;
Shimmering of seeded grass;
Hooded gentians all a’mass.
Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind
Tearing off the husky rind,
Blowing feathered seeds to fall
By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in a golden haze;
Hardy sumachs all ablaze,
Glowing through the silver birches.
How that pine tree shouts and lurches!
From the sunny door-jamb high,
Swings the shell of a butterfly.
Scrape of insect violins
Through the stubble shrilly dins.
Every blade’s a minaret
Where a small muezzin’s set,
Loudly calling us to pray
At the miracle of day.
Then the purple-lidded night
Westering comes, her footsteps light
Guided by the radiant boon
Of a sickle-shaped new moon.

— Amy Powell, Late September

Round about the city rests. The illuminated streets grow

Quiet, and coaches rush along, adorned with torches.

Men go home to rest, filled with the day’s pleasures;

Busy minds weigh up profit and loss contentedly

At home. The busy marketplace comes to rest,

Vacant now of flowers and grapes and crafts.

But the music of strings sounds in distant gardens:

Perhaps lovers play there, or a lonely man thinks

About distant friends, and about his own youth.

Rushing fountains flow by fragrant flower beds,

Bells ring softly in the twilight air, and a watchman

Calls out the hour, mindful of the time.

Now a breeze rises and touches the crest of the grove —

Look how the moon, like the shadow of our earth,

Also rises stealthily! Phantastical night comes,

Full of stars, unconcerned probably about us —

Astonishing night shines, a stranger among humans,

Sadly over the mountain tops, in splendor.

— Friedrich Holderlin, Bread and Wine

My grand-father’s clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a penny weight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopp’d short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp’d short never to go again
When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopp’d short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp’d short never to go again
When the old man died.

My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire —
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place — not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side;
But it stopp’d short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp’d short never to go again
When the old man died.

It rang an alarm in the dead of the night —
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight —
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side;
But it stopp’d short never to go again
When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)
It stopp’d short never to go again
When the old man died.

— Henry Clay Work, Grand-Father’s Clock

Her house is empty and her heart is old,
And filled with shades and echoes that deceive
No one save her, for still she tries to weave
With blind bent fingers, nets that cannot hold.
Once all men’s arms rose up to her, ‘tis told,
And hovered like white birds for her caress:
A crown she could have had to bind each tress
Of hair, and her sweet arms the Witches’ Gold.

Her mirrors know her witnesses, for there
She rose in dreams from other dreams that lent
Her softness as she stood, crowned with soft hair.
And with his bound heart and his young eyes bent
And blind, he feels her presence like shed scent,
Holding him body and life within its snare.

— William Faulkner, After Fifty Years

Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.

Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?

— Sarojini Naidu, Autumn Song

Genius, like gold and precious stones,
is chiefly prized because of its rarity.

Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild,
incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility,
and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter.

Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres
far above the vulgar world and fills his soul
with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth.

It is probably on account of this
that people who have genius
do not pay their board, as a general thing.

Geniuses are very singular.

If you see a young man who has frowsy hair
and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress,
you may set him down for a genius.

If he sings about the degeneracy of a world
which courts vulgar opulence
and neglects brains,
he is undoubtedly a genius.

If he is too proud to accept assistance,
and spurns it with a lordly air
at the very same time
that he knows he can’t make a living to save his life,
he is most certainly a genius.

If he hangs on and sticks to poetry,
notwithstanding sawing wood comes handier to him,
he is a true genius.

If he throws away every opportunity in life
and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends
and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot,
and finally persists,
in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense
but not any genius,
persists in going up some infamous back alley
dying in rags and dirt,
he is beyond all question a genius.

But above all things,
to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse
and then rush off and get booming drunk,
is the surest of all the different signs
of genius.

— Mark Twain, Genius