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THE LIGHT OF ASIA

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Each slew a slayer and in turn was slain,
Life living upon death. So the fair show
Veiled one vast, savage, grim conspiracy
Of mutual murder, from the worm to man,
Who himself kills his fellow; seeing which-
The hungry ploughman and his labouring kine,
Their dewlaps blistered with the bitter yoke,
The rage to live which makes all living strife
The Prince Siddartha sighed. "Is this," he said,
"That happy earth they brought me forth to see?
How salt with sweat the peasant's bread! how hard
The oxen's service! in the brake how fierce
The war of weak and strong! i' th' air with plots!
No refuge e'en in water. Go aside

A space, and let me muse on what ye show."
So saying the good Lord Buddha seated him
Under a jambu-tree, with ankles crossed
As holy statues sit - and first began
To meditate this deep disease of life,
What its far source and whence its remedy.
So vast a pity filled him, such wide love
For living things, such passion to heal pain,
That by their stress his princely spirit passed
To ecstasy, and, purged from mortal taint
Of sense and self, the boy attained thereat
Dhyana, first step of "the path."

SIR LEWIS MORRIS (b. 1833)

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For still the world is young; for still the spring Jews itself, and still the lengthening hours ing back the month of flowers.

The leaves are green to-day as those of old

For Chaucer and for Shakespeare; still the gold Of August gilds the rippling breadths of wheat; Young maids are fair and sweet

As when they frolicked gay, with flashing feet, Round the old May-pole. All young things rejoice. No sorrow dulls the blackbird's mellow voice, Thro' the clear summer dawns or twilights long. With aspect not more dim

Thro' space the planets swim

Than of old time o'er the Chaldean plain.

We only, we alone,

Let jarring discords mar our song,

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And find our music take a lower tone.

We only with dim eyes

And laboured vision feebly strain,

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In hall and cottage, to the casement rise
The little ones with their fresh morning eyes,
And gaze on the old Earth, which still grows new,
And see the tranquil heaven's unclouded blue,
And, since as yet no sight nor sound of toil
The fair-spread, peaceful picture comes to soil,
Look from their young and steadfast eyes
With such an artless sweet surprise

As Adam knew, when first on either hand
He saw the virgin landscapes of the morning land.

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Nay, all things that are born of time

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Spring upwards, and expand from youth to prime, Spring up from flower to fruit,

From song-tide till the days are mute,

Green blade to ear of gold.

But not the less through the eternal round

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Some shadow of the glory of our King,
Fades not on earth, nor with our years doth end;
Nay, even earth's poor physical powers transcend
The narrow bounds of space and time,
The swift thought by some mystic sympathy
Speeding through desert sand, and storm-tost sea.
And shall we hold the range of mind
Is to our little lives confined;

That the pure heart in some blest sphere above,
Loves not which here was set on fire of love;
The clear eye scans not still, which here could scan
The confines of the Universal plan;

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The seer nor speaks nor thinks his thoughts sublime, And all of Homer is a speck of lime?

Nay, friend, let us forget

The conflicts of our doubt a little while,

Again our springs shall smile;

We shall not perish yet.

If God so guide our fate,

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FROM THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT
As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: All was black,
In heaven no single star, on earth no track;
A brooding hush without a stir or note,
The air so thick it clotted in my throat;
And thus for hours; then some enormous things
Swooped past with savage cries and clanking wings:
But I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Eyes of fire
Glared at me throbbing with a starved desire;
The hoarse and heavy and carnivorous breath
Was hot upon me from deep jaws of death;
Sharp claws, swift talons, fleshless fingers cold
Plucked at me from the bushes, tried to hold:
But I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

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ART

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What precious thing are you making fast In all these silken lines?

And where and to whom will it go at last? Such subtle knots and twines!

I am tying up all my love in this,
With all its hopes and fears,
With all its anguish and all its bliss,
And its hours as heavy as years.

I am going to send it afar, afar,

To I know not where above;

To that sphere beyond the highest star
Where dwells the soul of my Love.

But in vain, in vain, would I make it fast
With countless subtle twines;

For ever its fire breaks out at last,

And shrivels all the lines.

II

If you have a carrier-dove

That can fly over land and sea; And a message for your Love, "Lady, I love but thee!"

And this dove will never stir

But straight from her to you,

And straight from you to her;

As you know and she knows too.

Will you first ensure, O sage,
Your dove that never tires
With your message in a cage,
Though a cage of golden wires?

Or will you fling your dove:

"Fly, darling, without rest,

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Over land and sea to my Love,

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THE EARTHLY PARADISE

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a-little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day,

But rather, when aweary of your mirth,
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by,

Made the more mindful that the sweet days die
Remember me a little then, I pray,
The idle singer of an empty day.

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Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, Telling a tale not too importunate

To those who in the sleepy region stay,
Lulled by the singer of an empty day.

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king

At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show, That through one window men beheld the spring And through another saw the summer glow,

THE EARTHLY PARADISE

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Forget six counties overhung with smoke,
Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke,
Forget the spreading of the hideous town;
Think rather of the pack-horse on the down,
And dream of London, small, and white, and
clean,

The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green;
Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves
Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves,
Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill,
And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill,
And treasured seanty spice from some far sea, 11
Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery,
And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne;
While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's
pen

Moves over bills of lading - mid such times
Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes.

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A nameless city in a distant sea, White as the changing walls of faerie, Thronged with much people clad in ancient guise I now am fain to set before your eyes; There, leave the clear green water and the quays, And pass betwixt its marble palaces, Until ye come unto the chiefest square; A bubbling conduit is set midmost there, And round about it now the maidens throng, With jest and laughter, and sweet broken song, Making but light of labour new begun While in their vessels gleams the morning sun.

On one side of the square a templę stands, Wherein the gods worshipped in ancient lands 30 Still have their altars; a great market-place Upon two other sides fills all the space,

And thence the busy hum of men comés forth;
But on the cold side looking toward the north
A pillared council-house may you behold,
Within whose porch are images of gold,
Gods of the nations who dwelt anciently
About the borders of the Grecian sea.

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Pass now between them, push the brazen door, And standing on the polished marble floor Leave all the noises of the square behind; Most calm that reverent chamber shall ye find, Silent at first, but for the noise you made When on the brazen door your hand you laid To shut it after you - but now behold The city rulers on their thrones of gold, Clad in most fair attire, and in their hands Long carven silver-banded ebony wands; Then from the dais drop your eyes and see Soldiers and peasants standing reverently Before those elders, round a little band Who bear such arms as guard the English land, But battered, rent, and rusted sore and they, The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, and grey; And as they lean with pain upon their spears Their brows seem furrowed deep with more than

years;

For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes; Bent are they less with time than miseries.

THE LADY OF THE LAND

It happened once, some men of Italy Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving, And much good fortune had they on the sea: Of many a man they had the ransoming, And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing; And midst their voyage to an isle they came, Whereof my story keepeth not the name.

Now though but little was there left to gain, Because the richer folk had gone away, Yet since by this of water they were fain They came to anchor in a land-locked bay, Whence in a while some went ashore to play, Going but lightly armed in twos or threes, For midst that folk they feared no enemies.

And of these fellows that thus went ashore, One was there who left all his friends behind; Who going inland ever more and more, And being left quite alone, at last did find A lonely valley sheltered from the wind, Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood, A long-deserted ruined castle stood.

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