Azure
By Raying Yu

Ascends from a verdurous dale,
Zephyr fans up the aroma of the green.
Until her aria in remote distance sings frail,
Ripples astir, gleeful birds of paradise preen,
Escorted, the azure leaves me but a fairy tale.

2006.10.20

The Anniversary to Forget
By Raying Yu

Right the moment, may it not be memorized in vain,
That the remembrance aroses not severest pain.
Right the place, may it not be perceived with ruth,
That the wound with time's passage it can soothe.

Not the moment, on the calendar hundred pages ripped,
So the bond by rains and winds rotten and snipped.
Not the place, with alienation of two souls between,
So the shadows of yore lessening and vanishing.

When be the moment, without the plague of kismet.
But I am now left with the anniversary to forget.
Where be the place, in the spirit of mine I vacate,
But the arrival yet falsifies whom my mind awaits.

2006.10.13

Shall I Wasting in Despair
By George Wither  
 
  Shall I wasting in despair
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

 

Shall my heart be griev'd or pin'd
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

 

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deserving known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best
If she be not such to me,
What care I, how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high

 

Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?  

 

To whom it may concern: Bright as you are, you can read between the lines the embodied precept. And I believe George Wither had it worked out after a same tortuous ordeal, only to find himself silly to have been entangled in a visional affection. "Dream no more, she cares not." He murmured to himself.

For if she be not for me, what care I for whom she be?

A poem can clarify all, and here comes a time for disillusionment.

 

Raying