You that in so great eminence, liue retir'd
(Rare Lord) approue your greatnesse cannot call
Your iudgement from the inward state requir'd
To blaze the outward; which doth neuer fall
In men by chance raisd, but by merit still.
He seekes not state, that curbs it being found:
Who seekes it not, neuer comes by it ill;
Nor ill can vse it. Spring then from this ground,
And let thy fruits be fauours done to Good,
As thy Good is adorn'd with royall fauours;
So shall pale Enuie famish with her food;
And thou spread further by thy vaine deprauours.

Thou that enioyst onely enough to liue,
Why grieu'st thou that the giuer does not giue
Foode with the fullest, when as much as thou
He thinkes him emptie? Tis a state so low
That I am fearefull euerie howre to sinke.
Well said. Vnthankfull fearefull, eate and drinke,
And feare to sterue still. Knowst thou not who sings
Before the theefe? The penurie of things
Whither conferres it? Drawes it not one breath
With great satietie? End not both in death?
Thy entrailes, with thy want, together shrinke;
He bursts with cruditie, and too much drinke.

Echoless voice of few sufficing chords,
Soft as the memory of a vaster rest,
Secret as sorrow held within the breast
Of one whose silence never stoops to words.
Harp of waste waters by thy hands caressed,
Chalice of music—prayer and song and strife—
Filled with that wine that drowns the ills of life
When the last vineyards of the soul are pressed.
Prophet of final calm where life shall cease,
Cease and a kind forgetfulness of soul
Fall like a balm upon the wounds of peace—
Thy voice shall soothe the last and sternest fight,

Lord of the deserts 'twixt a million spheres,
Child of the moon-dawn and the naked moon,
Close comrade of the whispered afternoon,
Angel of mercy, whose absolving tears
Erase the discord of our human fears:
Thy lap is freighted with the dawn, thy heart
Is warm about the sunset, for thou art
The woof and fabric of eternal years.
Thy hand is soft upon the troubled eyes,
And, in the palace of thy sister Sleep,
Thy peace remains when Life's last echo dies.
Thou art more tender than the raptured breath

H USH'D on the hill
Is the breeze;
Scarce by the zephyr
The trees
Softly are press'd;
The woodbird's asleep on the bough.
Wait, then, and thou
Soon wilt find rest.

The scattering
of blossoms
in the wind
lasts only a day—
while we lament
the moon's
descent
night

Crowned with a liberated people's love,
Crowned by the Nations with eternal fame,
His great heart burning still with patriot-fire,
Tho' Death's pale shadow rested on his brow,
Forth went the mighty Chief from his loved Land,
'Mid the hushed reverence paid to dying Kings,
On his last pilgrimage; yearning to find rest
For the o'erwearied hero-heart and brain,
After great trials pass'd and triumphs won,
Within the Temple-City of the World.
But, faint with combats of a glorious life,
Tho' Freedom's hymns still murmured on his lips,

A mountain village
at autumn's end—
that's when you learn
what mournfulness means
in the blast of the wintry wind

Let me die in spring
under the blossoming trees,
let it be around
that full moon
of Kisaragi month

I think human nature is pretty much the same all along.
On the whole perhaps Pussycat nature is the best.