English

I saw how beautiful your mansions are —
Your lakes and valleys and your peopled plain,
But thought of all that loss with all that gain,
And one geography is not enough.
One world, one world to loose the spirit in,
Will not contain a continental ghost.
I have a dream of islands drunk and lost,
Of cities shining with a ripe decay
Where old ships feed about their harbors' knees,
— Far, far beyond your small and private seas.











Used by permission of the author

The horns
of a bull
who was placed
before a mirror at the beginning
of human time;
in his fury
at the challenge of his double,
he has, from
that time to this,
been throwing himself against
the mirror, until
by now it is
shivered into millions of pieces—
here an eye, there
a hoof or a tuft
of hair; here a small wet shard made
entirely of tears.
And up there, below the spilt milk of
the stars, one
silver splinter—
parenthesis at the close of a long sentence,

B RUADAR and Smith and Glinn,
Amen, dear God, I pray,
May they lie low in waves of woe,
And tortures slow each day!
Amen!

Bruadar and Smith and Glinn
Helpless and cold, I pray,
Amen! I pray, O King,
To see them pine away.
Amen!

Bruadar and Smith and Glinn
May flails of sorrow flay!
Cause for lamenting, snares and cares
Be theirs by night and day!
Amen!

Blindness come down on Smith,
Palsy on Bruadar come,
Amen, O King of Brightness! Smite

Brother of mine, good monk with cowled head,
Walled from that world which thou hast long since fled,
And pacing thy green close beyond the sea,
I send my heart to thee.

Down gust-sweet walks, bordered by lavender,
While eastward, westward, the mad swallows whir,
All afternoon poring thy missal fair,
Serene thou pacest there.

Mixed with the words and fitting like a tune,
Thou hearest distantly the voice of June,
The little, gossiping noises in the grass,
The bees that come and pass.

Bright clouds of may
Shade half the pond.
Beyond,
All but one bay
Of emerald
Tall reeds
Like criss-cross bayonets
Where a bird once called,
Lies bright as the sun.
No one heeds.
The light wind frets
And drifts the scum
Of may-blossom.
Till the moorhen calls
Again
Naught's to be done
By birds or men.
Still the may falls.

The bugler sent a call of high romance —
Lights out! Lights out! — to the deserted square:
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer.
God, if it's this for me next time in France
Spare me the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with the other shattered ones,
Lying so stiff and still under the sky —
Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die.
The music ceased, and the red sunset flare
Was blood about his head as he stood there.

Browning makes the verses:
Your servant the critique.
Browning wouldn't sing at all:
I fancy I could speak.
Although the book was clever
(To give the Deil his due)
I wasn't pleased with Browning
Nor he with my review.

I
Brocadós and Damasks, and Tabbies, and Gawzes,
Are, by Robert Ballentine, lately brought over,
With Forty Things more: now hear what the Law says,
Whoe'er will not wear them is not the King's Lover.
Though a Printer and Dean
Seditiously mean
Our true Irish hearts from old England to wean;
We'll buy English Silks for our Wives and our Daughters,
In Spight of his Deanship and Journeyman Waters.
II

In England the dead in Woollen are clad,
The Dean and his Printer then let us cry Fye on;

Broad is the road that leads to death,
And thousands walk together there,
But wisdom shews a narrow path,
With here and there a traveller.

Deny thy-self, and take thy cross,
Is the Redeemer's great command!
Nature must count her gold but dross,
If she would gain this heavenly land.

The fearful soul that tires and faints,
And walks the ways of God no more,
Is but esteemed--almost a saint,
And makes his own destruction sure.

Lord, let not all my hopes be vain,
Create my heart entirely new;

Brushing away the dust, I opened the broken box
and suddenly held a friend's poem in my hand.
Touching this paper, I felt he was still alive —
but then remembered his death, how hard it would be to find him.
I recalled when we were in Suchou,
how everyone praised his literary talent.
In conversation, he analyzed profound principles
and sent forth fragrant words from his heart.
At that time, I was staying in the northern quarter
in a quiet studio overlooking a pond.
Burning orchid-lamps, we invited the moon to join us;