Page 50 - Jack Foley | The true litterateur
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                       (1958, written at the request of the Yearbook editor)

                We shall return no more, no more; our days
                Have swept aside the dream of endless time
                And will return no more. The misty haze
                Of autumn will return, and spring—sublime                            VALE
                And simple—will return, and winter’s chill,
                And summer’s sultry shade. (The seasons come
                And come again, reflected on the hill
                And in the valley, resurrected from
                A wind-blown death.) But we shall come no more.
                The hills and valley will bleak blackness bring,

                And from the shadows emptiness will pour,
                And, far behind us, memories will sing.
                Alone, we stand in darkness, yet, somewhere,
                Our ghosts remain to haunt the silent air.

                            THREE POEMS IN JAPANESE FORMS)

                                                             a frosted brightness
                                                             on the velvet covering
                                                             of a dark, dark night
                                                             flickers across the fleeting
                                                             emptiness of sleeping sky (tanka)

                                                             the winds blow, biting,
                                                             and ice hangs on the tree’s bough,
                                                             solidly swaying (hokku)

                                                             a paper flower
                                                             fell upon the snow-filled grass—
                                                             a touch of scarlet

                                                             on the endless white—a rose
                                                             of winter, cold, without scent (tanka)

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