There is not half so warm a fire
In the fruition as desire.
When I have got the fruit of pain
Possession makes me poor again:
Expected forms and shapes unknown
Whet and make sharp temptation.
Sense is too niggardly for bliss,
And pays me dully with what is;
But fancy's liberal and gives all
That can within her vastness fall.
Veil therefore still, while I divine
The treasure of this hidden mine,
And make imagination tell
What wonder doth in beauty dwell.

There is none, oh, none but you,
That from me estrange your sight,
Whom mine eyes affect to view
Or chainid ears hear with delight.

Other beauties others move,
In you I all graces find;
Such is the effect of love,
To make them happy that are kind.

Women in frail beauty trust,
Only seem you fair to me;
Yet prove truly kind and just,
For that may not dissembled be.

Sweet, afford me then your sight,
That, surveying all your looks,
Endless volumes I may write
And fill the world with envied books:

There is no vacant chair. The loving meet,
— A group unbroken — smitten, who knows how?
One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;
— We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?

Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;
— He needed it so often, nor could we
Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best.
— Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.

There is no vacant chair. If he will take
— The mood to listen mutely, be it done.
By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache,

— — There is no unbelief;
Whoever plants a seed beneath the sod
And waits to see it push away the clod,
— — He trusts in God.

— — There is no unbelief;
Whoever says, when clouds are in the sky,
" Be patient, heart; light breaketh by and by, "
— — Trusts the Most High.

— — There is no unbelief;
Whoever sees, 'neath winter's field of snow,
The silent harvest of the future grow —
— — God's power must know.

— — There is no unbelief;
Whoever lies down on his couch to sleep,

THE CAMEL-RIDER

There is no thing in all the world but love,
No jubilant thing of sun or shade worth one sad tear.
Why dost thou ask my lips to fashion songs
Other than this, my song of love to thee?

See where I lie and pluck the thorns of grief,
Dust on my head and fire, as one who mourns his slain.
Are they not slain, my treasures of dear peace?
This their red burial is, sand heaped on sand.

Here came I in the morning of my joys.
Before the dawn was born, through the dark downs I rode.
The low stars led me on as with a voice,

There is no sorrow
Time heals never;
No loss, betrayal,
Beyond repair.
Balm for the soul, then,
Though grave shall sever
Lover from loved
And all they share;
See, the sweet sun shines,
The shower is over,
Flowers preen their beauty,
The day how fair!

Brood not too closely
On love, or duty;
Friends long forgotten
May wait you where
Life with death
Brings all to an issue;
None will long mourn for you,
Pray for you, miss you,
Your place left vacant,
You not there.

There is no silence upon the earth or under the earth like the silence under the sea;
No cries announcing birth,
No sounds declaring death.
There is silence when the milt is laid on the spawn in the weeds and fungus of the rock-clefts;
And silence in the growth and struggle for life.
The bonitoes pounce upon the mackerel,
And are themselves caught by the barracudas,
The sharks kill the barracudas
And the great molluscs rend the sharks,
And all noiselessly—
Though swift be the action and final the conflict,
The drama is silent.

There is no roof in all the world,
Of palace or of cot.
That hideth not some burdened heart
Nigh breaking for its lot!
The earth is filled with pain and tears,
And closer draws the gloom;
And light or balm there can be none
Till Christ the Lord shall come.

My Saviour, who doth know the thirst
The longing spirit feels—
O Bridegroom, now so long afar,
Why stay thy chariot wheels?
Were ever eyes so dim with tears,
Breasts so oppressed with care?
Did ever hearts so yearn to catch
Thy whisper from the air?

There is no one among men who has not a special failing:
And my failing consists in writing verses.
I have broken away from the thousand ties of life:
But this infirmity still remains behind.
Each time that I look at a fine landscape:
Each time that I meet a loved friend,
I raise my voice and recite a stanza of poetry
And am glad as though a God had crossed my path.
Ever since the day I was banished to Hsün-yang
Half my time I have lived among the hills.
And often, when I have finished a new poem,
Alone I climb the road to the Eastern Rock.

There is no more good water
Because this pond is dry

I walked down to the river
Then turned around and cried

If the fishes in the water
Had my blues they'd die

Got a head full of poisonous
My baby got a rambling mind

Hey pretty mama
Tell me what have you done