English

" The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap, "
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary was the world,
But here is all aright.)

The Christ-Child lay on Mary's breast,
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)

The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world's desire.)

The Christ-child stood at Mary's knee.
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,

Christ hath a garden walled around,
A Paradise of fruitful ground,
Chosen by love and fenced by grace
From out the world's wide wilderness.

Like trees of spice His servants stand,
There planted by His mighty hand;
By Eden's gracious streams, that flow
To feed their beauty where they grow.

Awake, O wind of heaven, and bear
Their sweetest perfume through the air;
Stir up, O south, the boughs that bloom,
Till the beloved Master come;

That He may come and linger yet
Among the trees that He hath set;

Comfort thee, oh thou mourner, yet awhile!
Again shall Elia's smile
Refresh thy heart, when heart can ache no more.
What is it we deplore?
He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years,
Far worthier things than tears:
The love of friends without a single foe,
Unequalled lot below!
His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine;
Shalt thou for those repine?
He may have left the lowly walks of men;
Left them he has—what then?
Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes
Of all the good and wise?

Come forth, old lion, from thy den,
Come, be the gaze of idle men,
Old lion, shake thy mane and growl,
Or they will take thee for an owl.

Cliffs,
Cliffs,
And a twisted sea
Beating under a freezing moon.
Why should I,
Sitting peaceful and warm,
Cut my heart on so sharp a tune?

Liquid lapping of seething fire
Eating the heart of an old beech-tree.
Crack of icicles under the eaves,
Dog-wind whining eerily.

The oaks are red, and the asters flame,
And the sun is warm on bark and stones.
There's a Hunter's Moon abroad tonight—
The twigs are snapping like brittle bones.

You carry a lantern of rose-green glass,

Cloud and water, lonely, desolate:
where now is the flute's voice coming from?
Sighing, sighing—full of autumn thoughts;
unawares come feelings of separation.
Chilly moonlight on water by the tower;
west wind in the city on the river.
What need now to hear the Wu-ch'i Song
with its bitter resentment at southern journeys?

Cloth socks, straw sandals, robe of coarse cloth,
wine jug, book of poems—and a boy trailing behind!
White-haired, I laugh at myself: I once served at court!
Walking along, who pities me, this old Han-lin official!
I'm happy to hear that my five acres of rice
have all ripened now;
but it's too bad the chrysanthemums are late for the Double Ninth.
Pine tree forests, valley of bamboo—a place to enjoy myself:
and from time to time, a mountain monk will ask me for a little

I
The cold earth slept below,
Above the cold sky shone;
And all around with a chilling sound,
From caves of ice and fields of snow
The breath of night like death did flow
Beneath the sinking moon.
II

The wintry hedge was black,
The green grass was not seen,
The birds did rest on the bare thorn's breast,
Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack
Which the frost had made between.
III

Thine eyes glowed in the glare
Of the moon's dying light;

The church do zeem a touchen zight,
When vo'k, a-comen in at door,
Do softly tread the long-ailed vloor
Below the pillar'd arches' height,
Wi' bells a-pealen,
Vo'k a-kneelen,
Hearts a-healen, wi' the love
An' peäce a-zent em vrom above.

An' there, wi' mild an' thoughtvul feäce,
Wi' downcast eyes, an' vaices dum',
The wold an' young do slowly come,
An' teäke in stillness each his pleäce,
A-zinken slowly,
Kneelen lowly,
Seeken holy thoughts alwone,
In pray'r avore their Meäker's throne.

Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete,
And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son.

Lo, 'tis autumn,
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind,
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd vines,
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?)