English

II

He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

From Myrrha's eyes there flieth, girt with fire,
An angel of our lord, a laughing boy,
Who lights in frozen hearts a flaming pyre,
And with such sweetness doth the soul destroy,
That while it dies, it murmurs forth its joy:
Oh blessed am I to dwell in Paradise!

He who knows not what thing is Paradise,

I

I found myself one day all, all alone,
For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.

I do not think the world a field could show
With herbs of perfume so surpassing rare;
But when I passed beyond the green hedge-row,
A thousand flowers around me flourished fair,
White, pied and crimson, in the summer air;
Among the which I heard a sweet bird's tone.

I found myself one day all, all alone,

ROWLAND .

Stay, Thames , to heare my Song, thou great and famous Flood,
Beta alone the Phoenix is of all thy watry Brood,
The Queene of Virgins onely Shee,
The King of Floods allotting Thee
Of all the rest, be joyfull then to see this happy Day,
Thy Beta now alone shall be the Subject of my Lay.
With daintie and delightsome straynes of dapper Verilayes:
Come lovely Shepheards, sit by me, to tell our Beta's prayse,
And let us sing so high a Verse,
Her soveraigne Vertues to rehearse:

For the rosebud's break of beauty
Along the toiler's way;
For the violet's eye that opens
To bless the new-born day;
For the bare twigs that in summer
Bloom like the prophet's rod;
For the blossoming of flowers,
I thank Thee, O my God!

For the lifting up of mountains,
In brightness and in dread;
For the peaks where snow and sunshine
Alone have dared to tread;
For the dark of silent gorges,
Whence mighty cedars nod;
For the majesty of mountains,
I thank Thee, O my God!

This metal is engraved with Shang-style markings:
you certainly get credit for the greatest marvel
on earth!
Some future year, I'll wear it, as I enter deep
into the mountains:
at the peak of Heaven's Eye, I'll stamp it
on the white clouds.

from Book IV

— 'Twas at thatt hour of beauty when the setting sun
squandereth his cloudy bed with rosy hues, to flood
his lov'd works as in turn he biddeth them Good-night;
and all the towers and temples and mansions of men
face him in bright farewell, ere they creep from their pomp
naked beneath the darkness; — while to mortal eyes
'tis given, if so they close not of fatigue, nor strain
at lamplit tasks — 'tis given, as for a royal boon
to beggarly outcasts in homeless vigil, to watch

from Book IV

. . . The imponderable fragrance
of my window-jasmin, that from her starry cup
of red-stemm'd ivory invadeth my being,
as she floateth it forth, and wantoning unabash'd
asserteth her idea in the omnipotent blaze
of the tormented sun-ball, checquering the grey wall
with shadow-tracery of her shapely fronds; this frail
unique spice of perfumery, in which she holdeth
monopoly by royal licence of Nature,
is but one of a thousand angelic species,

from Introduction

The sky's unresting cloudland, that with varying play
sifteth the sunlight thru' its figured shades, that now
stand in massiv range, cumulated stupendous
mountainous snowbillowy up-piled in dazzling sheen,
Now like sailing ships on a calm ocean drifting,
Now scatter'd wispy waifs, that neath the eager blaze
disperse in air; Or now parcelling the icy inane
highspredd in fine diaper of silver and mother-of-pearl
freaking the intense azure; Now scurrying close o'erhead,

INTRODUCTION

. . . 'Twas late in my long journey, when I had clomb to where
the path was narrowing and the company few,
a glow of childlike wonder enthral'd me, as if my sense
had come to a new birth purified, my mind enrapt
re-awakening to a fresh initiation of life;
with like surprise of joy as any man may know
who rambling wide hath turn'd, resting on some hill-top
to view the plain he has left, and see'th it now out-spredd
mapp'd at his feet, a landscape so by beauty estranged

Ah my city, my lady,
the night of mourning has been too long
in your heart, the palm trees of love have withered,
sorrow has flowered,
the purest of your children have died
or live in exile.
When will the migrant day return, city of my heart,
when will we drink a toast to " Al-Tawil " and " " Aiban, "
eat spring cakes,
play with roses on a night in April,
when will joy's river wash our tears of exile away?