English

Body's desire that knows no end
the terrible power of a rising tide—
in the fire that flares up still more, perspiring,
salamanders twist and turn, dancing.

The ceaseless snow throws a feast of vol nuptial late at night
and shouts out joy in the hushed air.
Shattered by beauty and power
we then immerse ourselves in an esoteric flow
breathe in an aroused rosy haze
and reflected on the jewels in Indra's net
mold our lives inexhaustibly.

The cradling demon's power that lurks in winter

The bird's call this morning was a fine bird call.
Twenty bushels an acre isn't at all a bad crop.
The good bird sang of eighteen bushels of rice.
The bird sang, deep at night—I had to tell my lord to go home.
Let's listen to that bird's auspicious call!

Beyond my sight, deep into the darkness, the anchor chain disappears on the face of the sea.
Beyond my sight, high into the darkness, the halyard escapes toward the mast.
My light is meager. It can only shine on my blind face.
Staring at me in the distance, in the darkness I cannot see, a gull called.

Between the rusted railways
evening primroses put out fewer seeds each year.
On the burnt sand is a row
of gigantic, silver-gray globes
coated with aluminum paint.
The utilization of solar energy and the tides that popular science books preach
doesn't excite me a bit.
My fantasies are extremely modest.
That raw-smelling, black mud that's supposed to be all dug out of this earth in another twenty or thirty years is the future, they say.
Look at the sea.
Evidently
when one design
begins there,

I

Beside the Mead of Memories,
Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill,
The sad man sighed his phantasies:
He seems to sigh them still.

II

" 'Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers
Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest,
But the Mellstock quire of former years
Had entered into rest.

III

" Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,
And Reuben and Michael a pace behind,
And Bowman with his family

Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will
Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts: whose eye
Sees that, apart from magnanimity,
Wisdom exists not; nor the humbler skill
Of Prudence, disentangling good and ill
With patient care. What though assaults run high,
They daunt not him who holds his ministry,
Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil
Its duties; — prompt to move, but firm to wait, —
Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely found;
That, for the functions of an ancient State —

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,

The brain is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side,
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside.

The brain is deeper than the sea,
For, hold them, blue to blue,
The one the other will absorb,
As sponges, buckets do.

The brain is just the weight of God,
For, lift them, pound for pound,
And they will differ, if they do,
As syllable from sound.

AB ISHOP and Abold dragoon,
Both heroes in their way,
Did thus, of late, one afternoon;
Unto each other say; —
" Dear bishop, " quoth the brave huzzar,
" As nobody denies
" That you a wise logician are,
" And I am — otherwise,
" 'T is fit that in this question, we
" Stick each to his own art —
" That yours should be the sophistry,
" And mine the fighting part.
" My creed, I need not tell you, is
" Like that of Wellington,
" To whom no harlot comes amiss,

Beneath these poppies buried deep,
The bones of Bob the bard lie hid;
Peace to his manes; and may he sleep
As soundly as his readers did!

Through every sort of verse meandering,
Bob went without a hitch or fall,
Through epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine,
To verse that was no verse at all;

Till fiction having done enough,
To make a bard at least absurd,
And give his readers quantum suff.,
He took to praising George the Third,

And now, in virtue of his crown,
Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter;