32
FO-TAI-HO-CHUNG
Hugging his goodly paunch he sits,
And everywhere is a jest discerned,
No lean saint he, with a begging bowl,
He stirs the vat of his bubbling soul
With mem'ries plucked where a quick blood burned.
And everywhere is a jest discerned,
No lean saint he, with a begging bowl,
He stirs the vat of his bubbling soul
With mem'ries plucked where a quick blood burned.
I am ashamed—who wept last night—
Till the moon was blurred in a mist of grey
To look at his round, contented self
Hugging his paunch on the cedar shelf
And smiling out of the dusk—at day.
Till the moon was blurred in a mist of grey
To look at his round, contented self
Hugging his paunch on the cedar shelf
And smiling out of the dusk—at day.
But . . . he is china . . . suppose a charm
Could work for me from his kind mouth spoken?
Some sorcery of the Orient
Till I be made porcelain . . . white . . . content . . .
For only once can such gods be broken.
Could work for me from his kind mouth spoken?
Some sorcery of the Orient
Till I be made porcelain . . . white . . . content . . .
For only once can such gods be broken.
