Yi Kyu Bo.
My little girl with face like shining snow—
How empty now the silent courtyards seem
Where once her gay skirt flashed among the flowers!
At two she talked like some wise parrot’s tongue.
At three, retiring, sweet and very shy,
She hid herself behind the outer gate.
This year, being four, her tiny hand should hold
Her first small brush. I would have taught her well.
But she is gone. Only the brush remains.
My little pigeon of this troubled nest,
Why did you fly away so very soon?
A flash of light—you came. A flash—you fled.
I, who have learned to watch the passing days,
Can count them calmly still. But who shall dry
A mother’s falling tears?
Across the fields
A raging storm draws near.
The ripening grain
Will fall before the howling wind tonight.
Of all we sow how little do we reap!