Bright Tulips, we do know,
You had your comming hither;
And Fading-time do's show,
That Ye must quickly wither.

Your Sister-hoods may stay,
And smile here for your houre;
But dye ye must away:
Even as the meanest Flower.

Come Virgins then, and see
Your frailties; and bemone ye;
For lost like these, 'twill be,
As Time had never known ye.

It was at the Noon Bridge we were drinking —
Most of us men of high talent and ambition.
The stream below with a shimmering moon in its lap
Was gliding silently away into the distance;
In the sparse shadows of blossoming apricot
Wafted the notes of a flute till daybreak.

Twenty-odd summers gone by fleet as a dream,
unsettling — to find myself here still.
Idly I ascend the small tower
For a view of the scene after rain,
Regaled with snatches of the fishermen's midnight song
Telling of the vicissitudes of past and present.

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,
new crescent,

Bright shadows of true Rest! some shoots of blisse,
Heaven once a week;
The next worlds gladnes prepossest in this;
A day to seek
Eternity in time; the steps by which
We Climb above all ages; Lamps that light
Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich,
And full redemption of the whole weeks flight.

The Pulleys unto headlong man; times bower;
The narrow way;
Transplanted Paradise; Gods walking houre;
The Cool o' th' day;
The Creatures Jubile; Gods parle with dust;

The bright sea washed beneath her feet,
As it had done of yore,
The well-remembered odor sweet
Came through her opening door.

Again the grass his ripened head
Bowed where her raiment swept;
Again the fog-bell told of dread,
And all the landscape wept.

Again beside the woodland bars
She found the wilding rose,
With petals fine and heart of stars, —
The flower our childhood knows.

And there, before that blossom small,
By its young face beguiled,
The woman saw her burden fall,
And stood a little child.

Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere,
Bold in maternal Nature's care,
And all the long year through the heir
Of joy and sorrow;
Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity,
Given to no other flower I see
The forest thorough!

Is it that Man is soon deprest?
A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,
Or on his reason,
And Thou wouldst teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,
A hope for times that are unkind
And every season?

Golden chrysanthemums just in bloom
Tell of the approach of the Double Ninth Festival.
A bounteous gift from Heaven these autumnal tints,
Which however bring sadness in their train
As circumstances change.
I try on my thin dress, taste new-brewed wine,
Aware that I am in for
A spell of wind,
A spell of rain,
A spell of cold.

Yellowing twilight fills my rooms
With gloom and anxiety.
Memories of heartrending sorrow
Overwhelm me as I sober up from wine.
An unending night,
A full moon flooding an empty bed.

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.

Bright be the skies that cover thee,
—Child of the sunny brow,—
Bright as the dream flung over thee
—By all that meets thee now,—
Thy heart is beating joyously,
—Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
—Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be
—As beautiful as now,
That time might ever leave as free
—Thy yet unwritten brow.
I would life were all poetry
—To gentle measure set,
That naught but chastened melody

Bright as the light that burns at night,
In the starry depths of Aiden,
When star and moon in leafy June
With love and joy are laden;
Bright as the light from moon and star,
Stars in glorious cluster,
Be the lights that shine on this life of thine
Be the beauty of its lustre.

Beneath the moon in leafy June,
Sweet vows are fondly spoken;
Beneath the stars, the silvery tune
Of music floats unbroken.
Beneath the sky, and moon and stars,
Come nestling birds of beauty,
And Love with Bliss, and Hope with Joy