There is no one beside thee and no one above thee,
Thou standest alone as the nightingale sings!
And my words that would praise thee are impotent things,
For none can express thee though all should approve thee.
I love thee so, dear, that I only can love thee.
Say, what can I do for thee? weary thee, grieve thee?
Lean on thy shoulder, new burdens to add?
Weep my tears over thee, making thee sad?
Oh, hold me not--love me not! let me retrieve thee.
I love thee so, dear, that I only can leave thee.
The Golden Sunset
The golden sea its mirror spreads
Beneath the golden skies,
And but a narrow strip between
Of land and shadow lies.
The cloud-like rocks,the rock-like clouds
Dissolved in glory float,
And midway of the radiant flood,
Hangs silently the boat.
The sea is but another sky,
The sky a sea as well,
And which is earth and which is heaven,
The eye can scarcely tell.So when for us life’s evening hour,
Soft fading shall descend,
May glory, born of earth and heaven,
The earth and heaven blend.Flooded with peace the spirits float,
With silent rapture glow,
Till where earth ends and heaven begins,
The soul shall scarcely know.
The Eyes That Drew from Me
by Francesco Petrarch
The eyes that drew from me such fervent praise
The arms and hands and feat and countenance
Which made me a stranger in my own romance
And set me apart from the well-trodden ways;
The gleaming golden curly hair, the rays
Flashing from a smiling angel's glance
Which moved the world in paradisal dance,
Are grains of dust, insensibilities.
And I live on, but in grief and self-contempt,
Left here without the light I loved so much,
In a great tempest and with shrouds unkempt
No more love songs, then, I have done with such,
My old skill now runs thin at each attempt,
And tears are heard within the harp I touch.
The Last Chrysanthemum
by Thomas Hardy
Why should this flower delay so long
To show its tremulous plumes?
Now is the time of plaintive robin-song,
When flowers are in their tombs.
Through the slow summer, when the sun
Called to each frond and whorl
That all he could for flowers was being done,
Why did it not uncurl?
It must have felt that fervid call
Although it took no heed,
Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall,
And saps all retrocede.
Too late its beauty, lonely thing,
The season's shine is spent,
Nothing remains for it but shivering
In tempests turbulent.
Had it a reason for delay,
Dreaming in witlessness
That for a bloom so delicately gay
Winter would stay its stress?
- I talk as if the thing were born
With sense to work its mind;
Yet it is but one mask of many worn
By the Great Face behind.
Tibet, One Hundred Thousands Of Yak Butter-Lamps Light Up The Heaven
A poem by XiBeiWang Tr.by Lily
Winter has already come to the bed for meditation
Colorful spring still would like to enjoy its blossom
As much as possible, and to capture territories summer and fall have sounded the whistles. Only
One hundred thousands of sacred mountains keep silent
Gray hair shrouds over their shoulders, like
One hundred thousands of incenses
To wake up the up-looking gazes
An eagle, as strolling idly in a courtyard
One stroke after another, is reading over
The vast and boundless sky
Yurts stud everywhere and beside Mani Stones
Colorful prayer flags are combing
The long heads of the worldly male and female pilgrims along the road
With auspicious notes upheld, Gesang flowers
Are chasing flocks of sheep in multiple trips
And running over the lush meadows while from the sky clouds are falling off
Grains of highland barley are carrying the flame
Taking out the full tank of spirits
Drinking a bowl is the Yellow River
And drinking another bowl is the Yangtze River
Oh, dazzling white and pure blue
One hundred thousands of yak butter lamps
Are lighting up the heaven