Far overhead—the glass set fair—
I heard a raven in the air;
'Twixt roof and stars it fanning went,
And croaked in sudden dreariment.

Over the pages of my book
I, listening, cast a sidelong look.
Curtained the window; shut the door;
I turned me to my book once more;
But in that quiet strove in vain
To win its pleasure back again.

There is a wind where the rose was;
Cold rain where sweet grass was;
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.

Nought gold where your hair was;
Nought warm where your hand was;
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.

Sad winds where your voice was;
Tears, tears where my heart was;
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.

My mind is like a clamorous market-place.
All day in wind, rain, sun, its babel wells;
Voice answering to voice in tumult swells.
Chaffering and laughing, pushing for a place,
My thoughts haste on, gay, strange, poor, simple, base;
This one buys dust, and that a bauble sells:
But none to any scrutiny hints or tells
The haunting secrets hidden in each sad face.

The clamour quietens when the dark draws near;
Strange looms the earth in twilight of the West,
Lonely with one sweet star serene and clear,
Dwelling, when all this place is hushed to rest,

She stood like Spring before my Winter door,
Paler than dawn, wind-swept and delicate;
And her small hands, clasped like twin fragile shells,
Were white as Spring skies faintly veined with blue.

Years had she flown upon the moorland's edge,
Graven upon some sleeping ploughland scene;
And I with parted lips would stand and gaze,
While clouds breathed huge still outlines in the sky:

And she was not on moor or field or hill;
Perhaps a plough was dark against the air;
And night would come, and the pale blossoming moon

When I was seventeen I heard
From each censorious tongue,
“I 'd not do that if I were you;
You see you 're rather young.”

Now that I number forty years,
I'm quite as often told
Of this or that I should n't do
Because I 'm quite too old.

O carping world! If there 's an age
Where youth and manhood keep
An equal poise, alas! I must
Have passed it in my sleep.

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.

Tis night: the grape juice mantles high
in cups of gold galore;
We set to drink—but now the bugle
sounds to horse once more
Oh marvel not if drunken we
lie strewed about the plain;
How few of all who see the fight
shall e'er come back again!

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.

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;