Sweet, sacred hill! on whose fair brow My Saviour sate, shall I allow Language to love, And idolize some shade, or grove, Neglecting thee? such ill-plac’d wit, Conceit, or call it what you please, Is the brain’s fit, And mere disease.
Cotswold and Cooper’s both have met With learnèd swains, and echo yet Their pipes and wit; But thou sleep’st in a deep neglect, Untouch’d by any; and what need The sheep bleat thee a silly lay, That heard’st both reed And sheepward play?
Yet if poets mind thee well, They shall find thou art their hill, And fountain too. Their Lord with thee had most to do; He wept once, walk’d whole nights on thee: And from thence—His suff’rings ended— Unto glory Was attended.
Being there, this spacious ball Is but His narrow footstool all; And what we think Unsearchable, now with one wink He doth comprise; but in this air When He did stay to bear our ill And sin, this hill Was then His Chair.
I did not come on this earth as a seed, To fall in the circle of births, I am not the elements Earth, water, fire, air and ether I am beyond the primordial universal self and the individual self, I am the Supreme Consciousness.
We present this work in honor of the 375th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Willow catkins are swept up by wind and rain Down on the ground, they roll like blobs of cotton Down on the ground, they roll like blobs of cotton, Revealing the spring breeze’s weakness at the pavilion. Privately I relate my painful memory of a lost country To the Yangtze River that flows to the east Its whole length being filled with my grief.
Whilst heaven with envy on the earth looked down, Saw us unworthy of the royal pair, And justly claimed Maria as its own, Yet kindly left the glorious William here: The heaven and earth alike do in the blessing share. He makes the earth, she heaven our great allies, And though we mourn, she for our comfort dies, Nor need we fear the rash presumptuous foe, Whilst she’s our saint above, and he our king below.
I sit alone on an empty step, the crystal dew is chill; As night grows deep a certain shadow falls upon my robe. From whence that sound of pestles pounding, hurrying the moon, Gazing down on a forlorn figure—heart about to break?