The Lake
Edgar Allan Poe
In youth’s spring, it was my lot
To haunt of the wide earth a spot
To which I could not love the less
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound
And the tall trees
Kusanagi
Maybe the Japanese knife man
is going to lift me,
put me in his pocket
like a tiny jade comb,
take me along with him
looking for that lost shoe.