He gained my heart, he’s kind and good; for, high up from the ground,
He gave a room, to which he came, at morn, at eve, at night—
Words were but vain were I to try his kindness to recite.
With needle argentine he pierced the cradle of the tear.
What fears I felt! Su Tung-po’s words rung threat’ning in my ear:
“Glass hung in mist,” the poet says, “take heed you do not shake;”
(The words of fear rung in my ear), “how if it chance to break!”
The fragile lens his needle pierced: the dread, the sting, the pain,
I thought on these, and that the cup of sorrow I must drain;
But then my mem’ry faithful showed the work of fell disease,