The holy mirror,
repolished, is also pure —
blossoms of snow.

Spring
gradually taking form —
moon and plum blossoms.

Let's go
snow viewing
until we tumble over!

Withering winds —
the face of a man
pained by swollen cheeks.

As dew-drops freeze
Green grass wilts
Gentlemen do not understand this,
Yet are said to be wise
Let me ride on a cloud
To visit the immortals.

Face aflower and soul aflame,
Into my darkness she dancing came,
And my heart cried out and my body yearned,
And the whole world bourgeoned, and danced, and burned,
And I saw white limbs of the Morning stir,
As the darkness flowered and flamed with her.

Work is devout, and service is divine.
Who stoops to scrub a floor
May worship more
Than he who kneels before a holy shrine;
Who crushes stubborn ore
More worthily adore
Than he who crushes sacramental wine.

" Art's function is to please. "
" But whom? "
" The Few. "
" The Few won't fill the Theatre, my good man!
That by a different function earns its due. "
" And what may be its law? "
" Please Caliban. "

Thy beauty is bugle and banner — bugle, and banner, and prize!
I march to the beat of thy heart, and the oriflamme of thine eyes.
My falchion flashes thy smile, as I fight to the far-off goal —
The star of love that burns on the battlement of thy soul.
O Queen! the bugle is blowing, the banners flutter and stream;
Thy heart is beating such music, I fight as one in a dream.
I am blind; in my blood there is thunder; there is lightning around and above;
I have cloven a cohort asunder, I swoon on the ramparts of love.

Mounting the hill I found it long
Until I met a merry Song
That kissed mine eyes to blind me;
It mocked at me and turned and fled
But played on, fluttering overhead,
Till I forgot I went footsore
And the dusty road that rose before
Was the blue hill far behind me!