English

I said, Well then, do I
have so very little?
— always hungry and
sobbing through my fiddle.

He said, But hunger is
all the flavor I have.
I'm in the clutches of
the one who makes me cry.

I said, Well then, do I
have so very little?
— hope always flying off
on its crippled wings.

He said, Greater than flying
the confines of the nest.
In a twinkling the lightning
blows away reality —
praise be to the cycle
of birth and birth again.

I said, Well then, do I

Today I'm inside the fog,
but still at dawn that light
of glistening worlds
has suddenly broken through.

Flowering golden he dwells
in a fragrant land,
all well in his aloneness
on the tip of the ray.

We cannot see our path,
we heave cold sighs.
Hope turns into a bird
and life sinks in the dawning gray.

Nature's cloud descends,
spreading form and color.
The Lord's illusions come
with the magic of what's-not-clear.

Seeing in the dawn is
remembering separation.

CANTO FIFTH

I

The sultry summer day is done,
The western hills have hid the sun,
But mountain peak and village spire
Retain reflection of his fire.
Old Barnard's towers are purple still
To those that gaze from Toller-hill;
Distant and high, the tower of Bowes
Like steel upon the anvil glows;
And Stanmore's ridge behind that lay
Rich with the spoils of parting day,
In crimson and in gold arrayed,
Streaks yet awhile the closing shade,

We see in authors, too stiff to recant,
A hundred controversies of an ant;
And yet one watches, starves, freezes, and sweats,
To know but catechisms and alphabets
Of unconcerning things, matters of fact;
How others on our stage their parts did act;
What Caesar did, yea, and what Cicero said.
Why grass is green, or why our blood is red,
Are mysteries which none have reached unto.
In this low form, poor soul, what wilt thou do?
When wilt thou shake off this pedantery,
Of being taught by sense, and fantasy?

We now lament not, but congratulate.
She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
Where all sat hearkening how her youthful age
Should be employed, because in all she did,
Some figure of the Golden Times was hid;
Who could not lack, whate'er this world could give,
Because she was the form, that made it live;
Nor could complain, that this world was unfit
To be stayed in, then when she was in it;
She that first tried indifferent desires
By virtue, and virtue by religious fires,
She to whose person Paradise adhered,

Up, up, my drowsy soul, where thy new ear
Shall in the angels' songs no discord hear;
Where thou shalt see the blessed mother-maid
Joy in not being that, which men have said.
Where she is exalted more for being good,
Than for her interest of motherhood.
Up to those patriarchs, which did longer sit
Expecting Christ, than they'have enjoyed him yet.
Up to those prophets, which now gladly see
Their prophecies grown to be history.
Up to th' apostles, who did bravely run
All the sun's course, with more light than the sun.

THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY
Nothing could make me sooner to confess
That this world had an everlastingness,
Than to consider, that a year is run,
Since both this lower world's and the sun's sun,
The lustre, and the vigour of this all,
Did set; 'twere blasphemy to say, did fall.
But as a ship which hath struck sail, doth run
By force of that force which before, it won:
Or as sometimes in a beheaded man,
Though at those two red seas, which freely ran,
One from the trunk, another from the head,

'Tis lost, to trust a tomb with such a guest,
Or to confine her in a marble chest.
Alas, what 's marble, jet, or porphyry,
Prized with the chrysolite of either eye,
Or with those pearls, and rubies which she was?
Join the two Indies in one tomb, 'tis glass;
And so is all to her materials,
Though every inch were ten Escurials,
Yet she 's demolished: can we keep her then
In works of hands, or of the wits of men?
Can these memorials, rags of paper, give
Life to that name, by which name they must live?

Verse hath a middle nature; heaven keepes soules
The Grave keepes bodies, Verse the Fame enroules.

She, she is dead; she's dead: when thou know'st this,
Thou know'st how poor a trifling thing man is.
And learn'st thus much by our anatomy,
The heart being perished, no part can be free.
And that except thou feed (not banquet) on
The supernatural food, religion,
Thy better growth grows withered, and scant;
Be more than man, or thou'art less than an ant.
Then, as mankind, so is the world's whole frame
Quite out of joint, almost created lame:
For, before God had made up all the rest,
Corruption entered, and depraved the best: