If she you loved has proved unkind,
Love one that will be fonder;
Or, better, leave the town behind —
Strap wallet on, and wander!

You soon will reach a lake of blue
Enclosed by weeping willows;
There let your trivial tears bedew
The grass, and spare your pillows.

Then climb the rugged mountain sheer;
Though toil and stress confound you,
When you are on the top you'll hear
The eagles calling round you.

And free as they, and strong of wing,
Your life and strength renewing,
You'll think your loss a little thing,

Wild caresses, tender woes,
Dallying with the burning rose,
Fragrance sweet and lovely lies,
Passion rude in noble guise,
Love — its arts, its blisses, sighs —
Masters are the French in those.

For the art of hating, none
Like the Germans. Hate begun,
In the soul the drops distil
And the poison mounts until
There's enough at last to fill
Even Heidelberg's vast tun.

Unknown love
Is as bitter a thing
As the maiden-lily
Which grows in the thickets
Of the summer moor.

Those far-off fields, how fair they seem,
As soft through mists of years they gleam!
We never now around us see
Such meads as those of olden be;
We never find a lake or stream
One half so lovely as we deem
Those which we only view in dream,
Watering the fields of memory—
Those far-off fields!

And we were happy then! The theme
Of our existence, love supreme:
And looking back on Fate's decree—
On all that happened you and me—
We sigh—for dear our souls esteem
Those far-off fields!

O sea-gulls that are crying
On Sao river
How is it that,
Loving the river-beach,
You go further up the river?

(Answer)
To men indeed
We would say in general
" Our so much
Beloved river-beach
Do not snare with nets!"
(Then we will stay there).

Every evening in the twilight,
To and fro beside the fountain
Where the waters whitely murmured,
Walked the Sultan's lovely daughter.

And a youth, a slave, was standing
Every evening by the fountain
Where the waters whitely murmured;
And his cheek grew pale and paler.

Till one eve the lovely princess
Paused and asked him on a sudden:
" I would know thy name and country;
I would know thy home and kindred. "

And the slave replied, " Mohammed
Is my name; my home is Yemen;
And my people are the Asras:

With a rocking
(As) of great ships
Riding at anchor
I have at last become worn out with love,
Because of a child of man.

Too late, alas! ... I came to find
the lovely spring had fled
Yet must I not regret the days
of youth that now are dead;
For though the rosy buds of spring
the cruel winds have laid,
Behold the clustering fruit that hangs
beneath the leafy shade.

Xi Shi dreaming at dawn,
In the cool of silken curtains,
Scented coils of her falling chignon,
Half aloes and sandalwood.

The turning windlass of the well,
Creaking like singing jade,
Wakes with a start this lotus-blossom,
That has newly slept its fill.

Twin simurghs open her mirror,
An autumn pool of light.
She loosens her tresses before the mirror,
Stands by her ivory bed.

A single skein of perfumed silk,
Clouds cast on the floor,
Noiseless, the jade comb lights upon
Her lustrous hair.

IN MEMORY OF A SON OF ARCHDEACON FARRAR

Afar he sleeps whose name is graven here,
Where loving hearts his early doom deplore;
Youth, promise, virtue, all that made him dear
Heaven lent, earth borrowed, sorrowing to restore.