Which suddenly opens the portals of the mind,

We guess no angels,

And are contented to be blind.

Let us blow silver horns in the twilight,

And lift our hearts to the yellow star in the green,

To find perhaps, if, while the dew is rising,

Clear things may not be seen.

MORNING SONG FROM “SENLIN”

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning

When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,