Ah! no, no, it is nothing, surely nothing at all,
Only the wild-going wind round by the garden-wall,
For the dawn just now is breaking, the wind beginning to fall.

Wind, wind! thou art sad, art thou kind?
Wind, wind, unhappy! thou art blind,
Yet still thou wanderest the lily-seed to find.

So I will sit, and think and think of the days gone by,
Never moving my chair for fear the dogs should cry,
Making no noise at all while the flambeau burns awry.
For my chair is heavy and carved, and with sweeping green behind

— A H ! my heart is weary waiting,
— — Waiting for the May, —
Waiting for the pleasant rambles
Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles,
— With the woodbine alternating,
— — Scent the dewy way.
— Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
— — Waiting for the May.

— Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
— — Longing for the May, —
Longing to escape from study
To the young face fair and ruddy,
— And the thousand charms belonging
— — To the summer's day.
— Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
— — Longing for the May.

Ah Music, thou sweet sprite,
Thou trammelest my feet
With blossoms of delight
And tendrils of defeat.

Drugged by thy soft content
I let the charmed hours pass;
Days without effort spent
Drift by as in a glass.

Still, still thy strains allure;
I nothing lack of peace
Save that which makes secure,
The power to bid thee cease.

But wildered by delight
I stumble amid flowers,
While in my Dream's despite
The minutes run to hours.

BY LI T'AI-PO

A Winter night, a cold Winter night. To me, the night is unending.
I chant heavily to myself a long time. I sit, sit in the North Hall.
The water in the well is solid with ice. The moon enters the Women's Apartments.
The flame of the gold lamp is very small, the oil is frozen. It shines on the misery of my weeping.

The gold lamp goes out,
But the weeping continues and increases.
The Unworthy One hides her tears in her sleeve.
She hearkens to the song of her Lord, to the sound of it.

Ah ! marvel not if when I come to die
— And follow Death the way my fancies went
Year after fading year, the last mad sky
— Finds me impenitent;
For though my heart went doubting through the night,
— With many a backward glance at heaven's face,
Yet found I many treasures of delight
— Within this pleasant place.

I shall not grieve because the girls were fair
— And kinder than the world, nor shall I weep
Because with crying lips and clinging hair
— They stole away my sleep.
For lacking this I might not yet have known

I.

Ah Lucasta , why so Bright!
Spread with early streaked light!
If still vailed from our sight,
What is't but eternall night?

II.

Ah Lucasta , why so Chaste!
With that vigour, ripenes grac't!
Not to be by Man imbrac't
Makes that Royall coyne imbace't,
And this golden Orchard waste.

III.

Ah Lucasta , why so Great!
That thy crammed coffers sweat;
Yet not owner of a seat
May shelter you from Natures heat,
And your earthly joyes compleat.

IV.

Ah Lucasta , why so Good!

Ah! lovely appearance of death!
No sight upon earth is so fair;
Not all the gay pageants that breathe
Can with a dead body compare.

With solemn delight I survey
The corpse when the spirit is fled;
In love with the beautiful clay,
And longing to lie in its stead.

How blest is our brother, bereft
Of all that could burthen his mind!
How easy the soul, that hath left
This wearisome body behind!

This languishing head is at rest,
Its thinking and aching are o'er;
This quiet immovable breast

Ah! Love, my Master, hear me swear
By all the locks of Timo's hair,
By Demo, and that fragrant spell
Wherewith her body doth enchant
Such dreams as drowsy lovers haunt,
By Ilias' mirth delectable.
And by the lamp that sheds his light
On love and lovers all the night,
By those, ah Love, I swear that thou
Hast left me but one breath, and now
Upon my lips it fluttereth,
Yet this I'll yield, my latest breath,
Even this, oh Love, for thee to Death!

Ah, London! London! our delight,
Great flower that opens but at night,
Great City of the midnight sun,
Whose day begins when day is done.

Lamp after lamp against the sky
Opens a sudden beaming eye,
Leaping alight on either hand,
The iron lilies of the Strand.

Like dragonflies, the hansoms hover,
With jewelled eyes, to catch the lover,
The streets are full of lights and loves,
Soft gowns, and flutter of soiled doves.

Upon thy petals butterflies,
But at thy root, some say, there lies
A world of weeping trodden things,

Ah! little fly, alighting fitfully
In the dim dawn on this bare head of mine,
Which spreads a white and gleaming track for thee,
When chairs and dusky wardrobes cease to shine.
Though thou art irksome, let me not complain;
Thy foolish passion for my hairless head
Will spend itself, when these dark hours are sped,
And thou shalt seek the sunlight on the pane.
But still beware! thou art on dangerous ground:
An angry sonnet, or a hasty hand,
May slander thee, or crush thee: thy shrill sound
And constant touch may shake my self-command: