Tea bowls, incense burning — a good feeling here!
The day is long, the people, gone, the temple is closed.
Suddenly, high in the eaves, a cool wind blows,
bringing the songs of cicadas to mingle with my reading.

The day drags on, as long as a year!
Feeling bored, I put aside my books for a while.
No horses ever reach this place, beneath the pines —
I'll have to play this game of go against myself.

A fine breeze blows through the temple halls,
touches my robe;
beyond the railing, the rains of the plum season fall.
Here there is a tranquil monk to engage in conversation —
he breaks off a palm-frond to use as his chowry.

Floating threads of spider webs hang,
never swept away:
slowly, green shadows cluster on the courtyard stairs.
The yard is cool, there are few monks,
all sounds have died out;
but from time to time I hear knocking at the gate:
such is my solitude.

This little courtyard — the wind is pure,
the orange trees are blossoming,
the shadows of the walls turn as the sun crosses the sky.
After the afternoon nap, the feeling that books
have lost their flavor;
quietly, I lean against the railing, and sip my bitter tea.

Long as thine art shall love true love,
Long as thy science truth shall know,
Long as thine eagle harms no dove,
Long as thy law by law shall grow,
Long as thy God is God above,
Thy brother every man below,
So long, dear land of all my love,
Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall glow.

In men whom men condemn as ill
I find so much of goodness still,
In men whom men pronounce divine
I find so much of sin and blot,
I do not dare to draw a line
Between the two, where God has not.

As when some wayfaring man passing a wood,
Whose waving top hath long a sea-mark stood,
Goes jogging on, and in his mind nought hath,
But how the primrose finely strew the path,
Or sweetest violets lay down their heads
At some tree's root on mossy feather-beds,
Until his heel receives an adder's sting,
Whereat he starts, and back his head doth fling.

When the last Laird of Ravenswood to Ravenswood shall ride,
And woo a dead maiden to be his bride,
He shall stable his steed in the Kelpie's flow,
And his name shall be lost for evermoe!

10. My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand.
11. His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven.
12. His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.
13. His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh.
14. His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl: his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires.