Between me and the sunset, like a dome
Against the glory of a world on fire,
Now burned a sudden hill,
Bleak, round, and high, by flame-lit height made higher,
With nothing on it for the flame to kill
Save one who moved and was alone up there
To loom before the chaos and the glare
As if he were the last god going home
Unto his last desire.

Dark, marvelous, and inscrutable he moved on
Till down the fiery distance he was gone,
Like one of those eternal, remote things
That range across a man's imaginings

Better trust all and be deceived,
And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart that, if believed,
Had blessed one's life with true believing.

Oh, in this mocking world, too fast
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last
Than lose the blessed hope of truth.

Better the empty sorrow in the dark,
The crying heart, the crying eyes that stare
Blindly till morning, than the bitter flare
Of rainy street-lights, threaded spark to spark
To lure me from this room in my distress,
Out where you pass — far out beyond my sight.
Better to grope in this small space of night
For sleep, or peace, or any nothingness.
You are not here, and you will not return;
And if you came — the door is shut, and locked,
And sealed with pride, and barred across with pain;
And now it is for quiet that I yearn. . . .

A bamboo path leads through the First Stage
Where the City of Illusion appears from Lotus Peak.
Up in its windows all Ch'u is encompassed,
Above its forests Nine Rivers lies level.
Pliant grasses accepted for sitting in meditation,
Tall pines echo with sutra chanting.
Then, dwelling in void, beyond the Clouds of Law,
Observe the World, attain Non-Life.

Still as of old
— Men by themselves are priced —
For thirty pieces Judas sold
— Himself, not Christ.

Still as of old
— Men by themselves are priced —
For thirty pieces Judas sold
— Himself, not Christ.

Best solace of my lonely hours!
Whose tones can never tire,
Oh, how I thrill beneath thy powers, —
Sweet Spirit of the Lyre!
On streamlet's marge, or mountain's steep,
In wild, umbrageous forests deep,
Or by my midnight fire —
Where'er my vagrant footsteps be,
My soul can find a spell in thee!

Thy home is in the human mind,
And in the human breast,
With thoughts unfettered as the wind,
And feelings unexpressed;
With joys and griefs, with hopes and fears,
With pleasure's smiles, with sorrow's tears,

" Best scene
in the whole play! "
(much blowing of noses)

Best of thy sex! if sacred friendship can
Dwell in the bosom of inconstant man,
As cold and clear as ice, as snow unstained,
With Love's loose crimes unsullied, unprofaned,

Or you a woman with that name dare trust,
And think to friendship's ties we can be just,
In a strict league together we'll combine,
And [ ] friendship's bright example shine.

We will forget the difference of sex,
Nor shall the world's rude censure us perplex
Think me all man: my soul is masculine,
And capable of as great things as thine.

I heed the warning not to " sit beneath the eaves, "
A thousand coins are not to be taken lightly.
Finding great pleasure in hills and streams,
I have made many journeys, drifting in boats.
On the Five Sacred Mountains I have sought Shang Tzu-p'ing.
By the Three Rivers Hsiang, mourned for Ch'ü Yüan.
Lakes — I have crossed the breadth of Tung-t'ing;
Rivers — I enter the clear Hsin-an.

And now I hear the rapids of Yen Kuang,
For they lie on the course of this very stream.
Through layered ridges for hundreds of leagues,

Beside the sycamore, in hesitating
maiden trembling, you unclasp your smock.
On the gay margin of the laughing stream
I wait for the loose covering to fall.

And there, spreading its coif towards your hair,
a leaf that seems of glass in the May sun
turns green the light of the refulgent ray,
imbedding you in an enormous gem.

Modesty in a virgin is a buckler;
and on your charms, no sooner bared, you loose
a prudent and abundant torrent of splendours.

You unbraid a cataract of curls,
and peerless tresses cover peerless beauty