I ran into Tu Fu by a Rice Grain Mountain,
In a bamboo hat with the sun at high noon.
Hasn't he got awfully thin since our parting?
It must be the struggle of writing his poems.

A Queen Mother of the West peach tree is planted in my yard;
After three thousand warming springs,
it finally had a flower.
This strain and delay producing a fruit
was laughed at all around,
But when I climbed up to pick it, aah, aah, I sighed aloud.

Between us
twenty years of age
between your lips and my lips
when they meet and stay
the years collapse
the glass of a whole life shatters.

Between the falling leaf and rose-bud's breath;
The bird's forsaken nest and her new song
(And this is all the time there is for Death);
The worm and butterfly — it is not long!

A bamboo path leads through the First Stage
Where the City of Illusion appears from Lotus Peak.
Up in its windows all Ch'u is encompassed,
Above its forests Nine Rivers lies level.
Pliant grasses accepted for sitting in meditation,
Tall pines echo with sutra chanting.
Then, dwelling in void, beyond the Clouds of Law,
Observe the World, attain Non-Life.

" Best scene
in the whole play! "
(much blowing of noses)

The Western Course: a cicada's voice singing;
A southern cap: longing for home intrudes.
How can I bear those shadows of black locks
That come here to face my " Song of White Hair " ?
Dew heavy on it, can fly no farther toward me;
The wind strong, its echoes easily lost.
No one believes in nobility and purity —
On my behalf who will explain what's in my heart?

Obiit Saturday, 10 September 1830

Beneath this stone does William Hazlitt lie,
Thankless of all that God or man could give,
He lived like one who never thought to die,
He died like one who dared not hope to live.
[From ms]

Beneath the curious gaze of all the dead,
To enter heaven (O my beads unsaid!
Sins unconfessed!)
Dressed
In a gown woven of your fealty!
Oh, poor and lone and frighted I may be,
— But every woman there will look at me.

Below the surface-stream, shallow and light,
Of what we say we feel--below the stream,
As light, of what we think we feel--there flows
With noiseless current strong, obscure and deep,
The central stream of what we feel indeed.