Mountain of green trees and orioles everywhere!
I return from watching clouds over the stream.
Human life can never be without some kind of trouble;
it is only when walking in the mountains
that we really achieve peace.

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art:
I warmed both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.

1. How is the gold become dim! how is the most fine gold changed! the stones of the sanctuary are poured out in the tops of every street.
2. The precious sons of Zion, comparable to fine gold, how are they esteemed as earthen pitchers, the work of the hands of the potter!
3. Even the sea monsters draw out the breast, they give suck to their young ones: the daughter of my people is become cruel, like the ostriches in the wilderness.
4. The tongue of the sucking child cleaveth to the roof of his mouth for thirst: the young children ask bread, and no man breaketh it unto them.

How many ages hence
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over
In states unborn and accents yet unknown! III, i

Fates, we will know your pleasures.

That we shall die, we know; 'tis but the time,
And drawing days out, that men stand upon. III, i

When beggars die there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. II, ii

Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.

From Chap 3d
In the Moon as Phebus stood over his Oriental Gardening O ay come Ill sing you a song said the Cynic. the trumpeter shit in his hat said the Epicurean & clapt it on his head said the Pythagorean
Ill begin again said the Cynic
Little Phebus came strutting in
With his fat belly & his round chin
What is it you would please to have
Ho Ho
I wont let it go at only so & so

X

The trees, like great jade elephants,
Chained, stamp and shake 'neath the gadflies of the breeze;
The trees lunge and plunge, unruly elephants:
The clouds are their crimson howdah-canopies,
The sunlight glints like the golden robe of a Shah.
Would I were tossed on the wrinkled backs of those trees.

Willow catkins beyond the garden wait for evening tides;
across the stream, leaves of peachtrees
border the red bridge.
It is dusk: as I gaze in concentration
at springtime like a river,
beyond the T-pattern blinds of the Ting Family house
it is the Six Dynasties again.