The white chrysanthemums and asters star

The frosty silence, but their leaves exhale

No passion of remembrance or regret.

The perfect calmness and the perfect strength

My senses wrap in an enchanted robe

Woven of frost and fire; while in my soul

Blend the same mingled sovereignty and rest;

As if indeed my spirit had drained deep

Some delicate elixir of rich wine,

Ripened beneath the haughtiest of suns,