The sun sets, the pagoda is darkened.
A distant bell sounds from the misty ridge:
there must be a man who is not asleep,
coldly awakened to the deepest insight.

Sun on hillsides, wind on seas,
And grey crags instead of trees;
Instead of men, the gulls' lament —
God! how should not my heart be rent?

The Sun is Low, to Say the Least,
Although it is Well-Red;
Yet, Since it Rises in the Yeast,
It Should be Better Bred!

Sun and softness,
Sun and the beaten hardness of the earth,
Sun and the song of all the sun-stars
Gathered together—
Dark ones of Africa,
I bring you my songs
To sing on the Georgia roads.

Summer has doft his latest green,
And Autumn ranged the barley-mows.
So long away when have you been?
And are you coming back to close
The year? It sadly wants repose.

Summer breeze, so softly blowing,
In my garden pinks are growing,
If you'll go and send the showers,
You may come and smell my flowers.

Sukey, you shall be my wife,
And I will tell you why:
I have got a little pig,
And you have got a sty;
I have got a dun cow,
And you can make good cheese;
Sukey, will you have me?
Say " yes, " if you please.

Suits hang half a year in
Westminster Hall;
At Tyburn half an hour's
hanging endeth all.

Success and failure are not our affairs:
in frosty woods, ten thousand things fade.
A northern wind blows down the avenue;
the wine of parting is served on the river bridge.
A driving snow turns back the journeying goose;
low clouds oppress the angry hawk.
Once you were an official in Yen and Chao;
your time of desolation is this morning.

There was an old man who said — " Hum!
I am always a-spraining my Thumb."
When they said " Tell us how?"
He made them a bow, —
And said, " I've no jints in my Thumb!"