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Memories

Two things there are with Memory will abide,
Whatever else befall, while life flows by:
That soft cold hand-touch at the altar side;
The thrill that shook you at your child's first cry.

Change

The moon is fat and old tonight,
Yellow and gross with pain.
The moon is fat and old tonight,
But she'll be young again.
Whereas my love, who's fair and sweet,
My love, who's sweet and fair,
Will wither like the autumn rose
In winter air.

Ways

A slash of the wrist,
A swallow of scalding acid,
The crash of a bullet through the brain —
And Death comes like a mother
To hold you in her arms.

Cheng-tao Temple

Twisting, circling, the green path slants:
this is home for the rustic monks.
Swelling the gullies, waterfalls splash from cliffs;
piercing sky, stone teeth stand in rows.
The brazier is cold; some pine cones remain.
The trellis is silent; vine blossoms fall.
The monks remember when people fled the troops;
then, noble carriages flocked to these gates.

The Evening Wind

The eastern mail comes lumbering in
With outmost waves of Europe's din;
The western sighs adown the slope,
Or mid the rustling leaves doth grope,
Laden with news from Californ',
Whateer transpired hath since morn,
How wags The world by brier and brake,
From hence to Athabasca lake.