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
Sheer to God's sky, in life rather than death,

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.
Yet to what end should we those heights attain?

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
It headlong hurles downe, torne at sharpest stones.

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—
Without a sound it was;

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.”

“Green spectacles,” opined the shopman.