English

Ye that when surges covered the stars
Spat at the soaring sea
Captains bold, to a bolder heart
Gather and bow the knee.

See in his eyes a stranger star
Of peril and prowess done
Last night he made him a narrow bed
And laid him down thereon.

He gave his limbs to the starry laws
To swathe and guard and keep
He gave his soul to the unknown God
And dared to be asleep.

One long glad day to blow and shine
Given—and left behind
Hope—look ye that seek a sign—
Look, ye fools and blind.

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column;
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

Down on the sunlit ebb with the wind in her sails and free
Of cable and anchor she swept rejoicing to seek the sea.

And my eyes and my heart swept out with her,
When at my elbow I felt a stir

And, glancing down, I saw a lad—
A shambling lad with shifty air,
Weak-chested, stunted, and ill-clad—
Who watched her with unseeing stare.

Dull watery grey eyes he had,
Blinking beneath the slouching cap
That hid the low-browed, close-cropped head;
And as I turned to him he said,
With hopeless hang-dog air—

There is a flower I wish to wear,
But not until first worne by you . .
Hearts-ease . . of all Earth's flowers most rare;
Bring it; and bring enough for two.

I gave you a picture once,
A great crimson sun floating beside a gnarled bamboo.
The sun has faded;
For which reason, I think nothing of the painter,
Until I reflect that many pigments cannot bear the dazzle of excessive light.
For, my Dear, have you not sat opposite it daily?
I ask you, is there truth in this?

To-day I went into a shop where they sell spectacles.

“Sir,” said the shopman, “what can I do for you?
Are you far-sighted or near-sighted?”
“Neither the one nor the other,” said I.
“I can read the messages passing along the telegraph wires,
And I can see the antennae of a fly
Perched upon the bridge of my nose.”

“Rose-coloured spectacles, perhaps?” suggested the shopman.

“Indeed, no,” said I.
“Were I to add them to my natural vision
I should see everything ruined with blood.”

T'ung-ch'uan is a beautiful place:
on all sides, emerald hibiscus!
A tall pagoda guards the pass, alone;
a clear stream embraces city walls.
The marketplace resounds with accents of Wu visitors;
some shrines bear dedications from Han days.
I want to visit the Immortal Hermit, Mei,
but which mountain is he hiding on?

Volumes of books, tea and incense:
all his worries disappear!
He returns from a dream,
lying on his pillow at noon,
wind from the bamboos through the window.
Busy myself, I see this scene and feel ashamed:
how could I ever live as calmly
as the man in the painting?

At night I follow bell and chant
here, to this spiritual source.
Smiling, I take off my sash
and lie down for a sleep in the deserted hall.
I'll engage the monks in conversation—
many are old acquaintances;
or sit in meditation—perhaps this is my karma?
Stately, noble: the pines and junipers
sway the mountain moon;
high, imposing: the towers and terraces
hold the evening mists.
My dusty verses—how many years ago did they reach this place?

I try to read them with my portable lamp
but they're already fading away.

Your teeth are loose, your head is bald,
you're sixty-three years old;
every aspect of your life
should make you feel ashamed.
All that's left that interests you
are the products of your brush:
leave them behind to give the world
something to talk about.