I HAVE not loved the gold of the mine.
— I have not loved the image of gold.
But I have loved the gold divine
— That springs in April from the mould;
And I have loved to see thee shine,
— Thou Sun, that makest all things gold!

All that love hath to give to me is given.
— Alas for the unutterable pain!
To love that showered on me the pearls of heaven
— I have no gift that I can give again, —
Not the least gem of earth, from the rock riven —
— I search my empty treasury in vain.

" First " in my heart? Why, she is all my heart.
There is no other;
Tho' I in her esteem have but a part,
And many a brother.

" First " in my love? I have no other love
Nor recollection.
Yet many names are writ my name above
In her affection.

" First " in my life? Tell me that she must die —
My life is over!
Tell her that I am dead — she'll give a sigh
For her old lover.

I MAY not call what many call divine,
And yet my faith is faith in its degree;
I worship at a dim and lonely shrine
— — On bended knee.

The secret grace of faith's celestial part
I hoard up safely for mine own self's own;
Within the hidden chambers of the heart
— — I love alone.

Love, I renounce thy tyrant sway,
— I mock thy fascinating art,
Mine, be the calm unruffled day,
— That brings no torment to the heart;
The tranquil mind, the noiseless scene,
Where Fancy, with enchanting mien,
Shall in her right-hand lead along
The graceful patroness of Song ;
Where Harmony shall softly fling
Her light tones o'er the dulcet string;
And with her magic Lyre compose
Each pang that throbs, each pulse that glows;
Till her resistless strains dispense,
The balm of blest Indifference.

BY LI T'AI-PO

From whose house do the invisible notes of a jade flute come flying?
The Spring wind scatters them. They fill the City of Lo Yang.
To-night, as the phrases form, I hear " The Snapped Willow. "
To whom do they not bring back the love of his old, early garden?

BY LI T'AI-PO

The silver-crested love-pheasants strutted upon the Pheasant Terrace.
Now the pheasants are gone, the terrace is empty, and the river flows on its old, original way.
Gone are the blossoms of the Palace of Wu and overgrown the road to it.
Passed the generations of the Chin, with their robes and head-dresses; they lie beneath the ancient mounds.

The three hills are half fallen down from Green Heaven.
The White Heron Island cuts the river in two.
Here also, drifting clouds may blind the Sun,

BY LI T'AI-PO

From little, little girls, they have lived in the Golden House.
They are lovely, lovely, in the Purple Hall.
They dress their hair with hill flowers,
And rock-bamboos are embroidered on their dresses of open-work silk gauze.
When they go out from the retired Women's Apartments,
They often follow the Palace chairs.
Their only sorrow, that the songs and wu dances are over,
Changed into the five-coloured clouds and flown away.

Because the moonlight deceives
Therefore I love it.

Look, Dear, how bright the moonlight is to-night!
See where it casts the shadow of that tree
Far out upon the grass. And every gust
Of light night wind comes laden with the scent
Of opening flowers which never bloom by day:
Night-scented stocks, and four o'clocks, and that
Pale yellow disk, upreared on its tall stalk,
The evening primrose, comrade of the stars.
It seems as though the garden which you love
Were like a swinging censer, its incense
Floating before us as a reverent act
To sanctify and bless our night of love.