PAINTED BY WILLIAM WILLARD

Look on this lady! and behold in her
What women could be, and what women were,
In days, gone by, before the excess of books
Had weighed their natures down and marred their looks:
A face that could not frown, and if it smile,
Reveals a soul incapable of guile;
Spirito gentil! believing others clean,
Thinking no scandal, noting nothing mean;
As far away from sourness as from vanity,
Perfect in purity, — not Puritanity.

We sat on the top of the cliff
Overlooking the open sea
Our backs turned to the little town
Each of us had a basket of strawberries
We had just bought them from a dark woman
With quick eyes — berry-finding eyes
They're fresh picked said she from our own garden
The tips of her fingers were stained a bright red!
Heavens what strawberries
Each one was the finest
The perfect berry — the strawberry Absolute
The fruit of our childhood!
The very air came fanning
On strawberry wings
And down below, in the pools

While still the west was glowing, yesternight,
From a small dwelling in a common street,
Amid all common things of sound and sight,
A mighty spirit Olympus-ward did fleet.
In that celestial commonwealth of souls
Who have deserved Olympus, what a crowd
Will come about him! how the list unrolls
Of names like his! with voice no longer loud,
But low and tender, trembling to the tone
Of his melodious greeting, " O my true!
O Charles! dear Edmund! constant Garrison!
Sweet singer by the Charles! when friends were few. "

This road —
no one goes down it

Chrysanthemum scent —
in Nara ancient statues
of the Buddha.

Taking a midday nap
feet planted
on a cool wall.

Long years ago, at fifteen, maybe less,
How earnestly I loved the Classics then:
Poor as I was, my heart possessed true wealth,
That ache to learn such truths as make good men.

I threw all windows wide upon the world
And climbed high hills to find those truths I sought.
The heights were knobbed with gravemounds
Hundreds and hundreds
Of hundreds and hundreds all brought down to nought.

Thousands of thousands of thousands of years from now
What will a good name count for? Nothing at all
At last I understand earth's oldest wisdom

My lady comes of knightly race;
Her forbears oft on many a field,
Ere arms to merchandise gave place,
With life's best drops their honor sealed.
She beareth lilies on her shield,
The flower de luce is her device;
And on the roll of her degree
Crosses are blazoned twice and thrice.

Some served their king on foreign strands;
One yeoman fell to make us free;
One, at his country's high commands,
Helped build the country that you see:
What wonder that his child to me
Seems of that life a precious part,

I am growing old
In the shadow of death
My admiration goes to the waves
That come from the same source
to flow in different ways
Life is not worthy of mention
Yet hate and enmity have been my tribulation.
Do I really have adversaries?
Or are my sensitive ears deceiving my eyes?
Vision and hearing are both waning.
But malice against me is still waxing
I shall call on my Taoist friends;
Together we shall go on a journey.

A cat's wife —
grown thin from
love and barley?