English

O EARTH , this is not earthly, nor of stone;
Nor did thy bowels yield the stuff that made
The pale gray roof whereunder light and shade
Move undiurnal to the greater sun.
Prayer carved the sable flowers; a choral spun
Rose-windows in the aisle; and music stayed
So silken-long by arch and colonnade
That the lines trembled out and followed on.
'T is here philosopher and peasant sings
In pauses of the mind, when thought and faith,
The I and Thou, are bubbles of the breath;—
From on the citadel of human things

wintering butterfly,
the moor as drained

the rose garden—
unless you retrace your steps
there's no exit

On a part of a spear still unrusted in the sand
I have burnished the symbol of an ancient kingdom. . . .
Except for a wind aiding General Chou Yü,
Spring would have sealed both Ch'iao girls in Copper-Bird Palace.

That when the good man lowly bent
Cooked his own cabbage in his homely tent,
And when the Sammites sent a golden sum
To tempt him to betray his country, Rome,
The dross he scoffingly returned untold
And answered with a look serenely bold,
That Roman sprouts would boil without the Grecian gold;
Then eat his coleworts for his meal designed,
And beat the Grecian army when he dined.

Since none in virtue to perfection rise
But those who oft its precepts exercise,
We who dare greatly in the dawn of age
Heroic actions copy on the stage;
Think glory cheap though purchased oft with pain,
And pleasure when 'tis bought with guilt disdain;
Learn all the graces of a godlike mind,
In friendship gen'rous, and in love refined;
By great examples growing early wise,
When men must sure to noblest heights arise;
Like Romans in our country's cause appear,
And be the heroes we have acted here.

This letter of Pythagoras, that beares
This forkt distinction, to conceit prefers
The forme mans life beares. Vertues hard way takes
Vpon the right hand path: which entrie makes
(To sensuall eyes) with difficult affaire:
But when ye once haue climb'd the highest staire,
The beautie and the sweetnesse it containes,
Giue rest and comfort, farre past all your paines.
The broad-way in a brauery paints ye forth
(In th'entrie) softnesse, and much shade of worth:
But when ye reach the top, the taken Ones

Who stands before me on the stairs:
Ah, is it you, my love?
My candle-light burns through your arm,
And still thou dost not move;
Thy body's dead, this is not you—
It is thy ghost my light burns through.

Thy spirit this: I leap the stairs,
To reach thy body's place;
I kiss and kiss, and still there comes
No colour to thy face;
I hug thee for one little breath—
For this is sleep, it is not death!


The first night she was in her grave,
And I looked in the glass,
I saw her sit upright in bed—

Since that I may not have
Love on this side the grave,
Let me imagine Love
Since not mine is the bliss
Of “claspt hands and lips that kiss.”
Let me in dreams it prove
What tho' as the years roll
No soul shall melt to my soul,
Let me conceive such thing;
Tho' never shall entwine
Loving arms around mine
Let dreams caresses bring
To live—it is my doom—
Lonely as in a tomb,
This cross on me was laid;
My God, I know not why;
Here in the dark I lie,
Lonely, yet not afraid.

Thy life is lonely utterly.
O one I know of emptied days!
A place of wakeful pain for me,
Remote by consecrated ways,—
If I could only die in thee.

We are apart, whose hands clung so.
We might have lived—I mourn with thee.
Sweet life was not for us to know.
We cannot die till death shall be.
Lament thy love, and let me go.

Yet patient rebel that thou art,
All thy quiet life awaits me now,
In a world of thoughts that lies apart.
Are we not thoughts ourselves, sayest thou,