A Charcoal Scuttle of Old Gourd
1901
On the hillside, the autumn leaves are bright;
Across the rice-field, wild geese’s flight;
The hoar-frost is bitingly cold.
Then, lo! the abode of an old man,
Very fond of his tea,
Assumes at once its wintery mien.
By the hearth a scuttle of old gourd
Filled mountain high with charcoal;
A pair of steel tongs with a mulberry handle;
A brush of an eagle’s tail feathers;
And the old man sits the livelong day
By his boiling kettle in a silent room.
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