Within the room a mist of music rising
Between my weary soul and the clamorous world.
While through the window floats another song of men's devising
From a fountain like a frail pale feather, cunningly upcurled.

That sky pomp, we call sunset, flares, slow winding
In long procession through the western gates ajar,
With pageant of plumed purple gonfalons, and blinding
Proud flash of swords, it leaves us to the twilight, and one pale star.

And now the music storms with stern persistence
The prison where my secret thoughts are shut apart,

Hast thou a cunning instrument of play,
'Tis well; but see thou keep it bright,
And tuned to primal chords, so that it may
Be ready day and night.
For when He comes thou know'st not, who shall say:—
“These virginals are apt”; and try a note,
And sit, and make sweet solace of delight,
That men shall stand to listen on the way,
And all the room with heavenly music float.

O Sadhus, in all see Him always: the world is filled by Him in all its four recesses.
Without condition and unseen, undivided, formless; without the Guru's teaching none beholds Him.
To that station few are they that climb, though they meditate with Joga and all Joga's rules.
O Bhikha, blest are they that are steeped in Hari's dye: they are the sadhus of the olden days.

saffron in bloom—
the movie yesterday
murdered a man

Great lyes they tell, preach our church cannot err,
Less lies, who say the king's not head of her;
Great lyes, who cry we may shed others' blood,
Less lyes, who swear dumb bishops are not good;
Great lyes they vent, say we for God do fight,
Less lyes who guess the king does nothing right;
Great lyes and less lyes all our aims descry:
To pulpits some, to camp the rest apply.

A BUSY dream, forgotten ere it fades,
A vapour, melting into air away,
Vain hopes, vain fears, a mesh of lights and shades,
A chequered labyrinth of night and day,
This is our life; a rapid, surgy flood,
Where each wave hunts its fellow; on they press.
To-day is yesterday, and hope's young bud
Has fruited a to-morrow's nothingness:
Still on they press, and we are borne along,
Forgetting and forgotten, trampling down
The living and the dead in that fierce throng,
With little heed of Heaven's smile or frown,

Who can reviewe, without a pretious losse
Of teares, the bitter sorowes of thy crosse
(Oh Dearest Lord)
Whose corps was gor'd,
In every member, by remorseles steele,
That wee (thy Members) might not Tophet feele—
Thy feet (Oh God)
Which never trod
In sinnefull pathes, with bloudy nayles were pierc'd;
Because wee in ungodly wayes were vers'd:
Thy hands most pure,
Were forc'd t'endure
The self same paines; because our hands have bin,
Vile instruments of wickednes, and sinne:
Thy temples blest
With thornes were prest:

W I se men suffer, good men grieve,
Knaves devise, and Fools believe,
Help, O Lord, send ayd unto us,
Else Knaves and Fools will quite undoe us.

One day in March, I ranged a verdant plain,
Where sweets salute you from each well-dressed swain;
Where tower-capped heads with lace and ribbon vie,
Like ancient Babel's tower, to reach the sky!
Where Yemen's scents from snowy 'kerchiefs breathe,
And gales of fragrance passing coxcombs leave;
Where belles parade in hopes to be admired,
And beaux too, with the same ambition fired.
Through this gay mead one morn I vainly roved,
Nor had my heart the sweets of fondness proved:
Thought Venus' son possessed no power to wound,

A flaxen-headed cow-boy, as simple as may be,
And next a merry plough-boy, I whistled o'er the lea;
But now a saucy footman, I strut in worsted lace,
And soon I'll be a butler, and wag my jolly face;
When steward I'm promoted, I'll snip a tradesman's bill,
My master's coffers empty, my pockets for to fill;
When lolling in my chariot, so great a man I'll be,
You'll forget the little plough-boy that whistled o'er the lea.

I'll buy votes at elections but, when I've made the pelf,
I'll stand poll for the Parliament, and then vote in myself;