English

Space , and the twelve clean winds of heaven,
And this sharp exultation, like a cry, after the slow six thousand steps of climbing!
This is Tai Shan, the beautiful, the most holy.

Below my feet the foot-hills nestle, brown with flecks of green; and lower down the flat brown plain, the floor of earth, stretches away to blue infinity.
Beside me in this airy space the temple roofs cut their slow curves against the sky,
And one black bird circles above the void.

Space, and the twelve clean winds are here;

So cruel prison how could betide, alas,
As proud Windsor, Where I in lust and joy
With a king's son my childish years did pass
In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy?
Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour;
The large green courts where we were wont to hove
With eyes cast up unto the maidens' tower,
And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love;
The stately sails, the ladies bright of hue,
The dances short, long tales of great delight,
With words and looks that tigers could but rue,

Sleep , little baby, sleep and rest,
The moon hangs low in the crimson west;
As the Christ-child slept at Mary's breast,
Sleep, little baby, sleep!

Hush, little baby, hush and dream
Of golden boats on a silver stream,
And let my love creep in between.
Hush, little baby, hush!

Rest, little baby, rest and sleep,
Far in the fields are the little white sheep.
Safe in my arms in slumber deep
Rest, little baby, rest!

Sing while you may, O bird upon the tree!
Although on high, wide-winged above the day
Chill evening broadens to immensity;
Sing while you may.

On thee, wide-hovering too, intent to slay,
The hawk's slant pinion buoys him terribly:
Thus near the end is of thy happy lay.

The day and thou and miserable me
Dark wings shall cover up and hide away
Where no song stirs of bird or memory;
Sing while you may.

All you that are to mirth Inclin'd
consider well and bare in mind
What our Good God hath for us don
in sending his beloved sonne
for to redeeme our sowles from thrall
who is the saviour of us all.

Let all your songs and praises bee
Unto his heavenly majestie
And evermore amongst your mirth
remember christ our saviours birth

The twenty fift Day of December
Good cause have we for to remember
In bethlem upon that morne
there was our blest messias borne

That night before the happie tyde

Sing jigmijole the pudding-bowl,
The table and the frame,
My master he did cudgel me
For kissing of my dame.

She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
—Her tears are in the falling rain,
She calls me in the wind's soft song,
—And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger,
—The moon is but her silver car;
Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
—And every wistful waiting star.

Shady, shady the wood in front of the Hall:
At midsummer full of calm shadows.
The south wind follows summer's train:
With its eddying puffs it blows open my coat.
I am free from ties and can live a life of retirement.
When I rise from sleep, I play with books and harp.
The lettuce in the garden still grows moist:
Of last year's grain there is always plenty left.
Self-support should maintain strict limits:
More than enough is not what I want.
I grind millet and make good wine:
When the wine is heated, I pour it out for myself.

The sea is a wilderness of waves,
A desert of water.
We dip and dive,
Rise and roll,
Hide and are hidden
On the sea.
Day, night,
Night, day,
The sea is a desert of waves,
A wilderness of water.

Said the sparrow to the robin,
“I would surely like to know
What makes these busy humans
Rush about and worry so!”

Said the robin to the sparrow,
“I don't know unless it be
They have no Heavenly Father
To care for them like you and me.”