Poem – Sleep And Poetry – John Keats

As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete 

Was unto me, but why that I ne might 

Rest I ne wist, for there n’as erthly wight 

[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese 

Than I, for I n’ad sicknesse nor disese. ~ Chaucer 

What is more gentle than a wind in summer? 

What is more soothing than the pretty hummer 

That stays one moment in an open flower, 

And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower? 

What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing 

In a green island, far from all men’s knowing? 

More healthful than the leafiness of dales? 

More secret than a nest of nightingales? 

More serene than Cordelia’s countenance? 

More full of visions than a high romance? 

What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes! 

Low murmurer of tender lullabies! 

Light hoverer around our happy pillows! 

Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows! 

Silent entangler of a beauty’s tresses! 

Most happy listener! when the morning blesses 

Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes 

That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise. 
But what is higher beyond thought than thee? 

Fresher than berries of a mountain tree? 

More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal, 

Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle? 

What is it? And to what shall I compare it? 

It has a glory, and naught else can share it: 

The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, 

Chasing away all worldliness and folly; 

Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder, 

Or the low rumblings earth’s regions under; 

And sometimes like a gentle whispering 

Of all the secrets of some wond’rous thing 

That breathes about us in the vacant air; 

So that we look around with prying stare, 

Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning, 

And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning; 

To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended, 

That is to crown our name when life is ended. 

Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, 

And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice! 

Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, 

And die away in ardent mutterings. 
No one who once the glorious sun has seen, 

And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean 

For his great Maker’s presence, but must know 

What ’tis I mean, and feel his being glow: 

Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, 

By telling what he sees from native merit. 
O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 

Of thy wide heaven- Should I rather kneel 

Upon some mountain-top until I feel 

A glowing splendour round about me hung, 

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue? 

O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 

Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer, 

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 

Smooth’d for intoxication by the breath 

Of flowering bays, that I may die a death 

Of luxury, and my young spirit follow 

The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo 

Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear 

The o’erwhelming sweets, ’twill bring to me the fair 

Visions of all places: a bowery nook 

Will be elysium- an eternal book 

Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 

About the leaves, and flowers- about the playing 

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade 

Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid; 

And many a verse from so strange influence 

That we must ever wonder how, and whence 

It came. Also imaginings will hover 

Round my fire-side, and haply there discover 

Vistas of solemn beauty, where I’d wander 

In happy silence, like the clear Meander 

Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot 

Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot, 

Or a green hill o’erspread with chequer’d dress 

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, 

Write on my tablets all that was permitted, 

All that was for our human senses fitted. 

Then the events of this wide world I’d seize 

Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze 

Till at its shoulders it should proudly see 

Wings to find out an immortality. 
Stop and consider! life is but a day; 

A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way 

From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep 

While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep 

Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan? 

Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown; 

The reading of an ever-changing tale; 

The light uplifting of a maiden’s veil; 

A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; 

A laughing school-boy, without grief or care, 

Riding the springy branches of an elm. 
O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 

Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed 

That my own soul has to itself decreed. 

Then will I pass the countries that I see 

In long perspective, and continually 

Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I’ll pass 

Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass, 

Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, 

And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees; 

Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, 

To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,- 

Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white 

Into a pretty shrinking with a bite 

As hard as lips can make it: till agreed, 

A lovely tale of human life we’ll read. 

And one will teach a tame dove how it best 

May fan the cool air gently o’er my rest; 

Another, bending o’er her nimble tread, 

Will set a green robe floating round her head, 

And still will dance with ever varied ease, 

Smiling upon the flowers and the trees: 

Another will entice me on, and on 

Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon; 

Till in the bosom of a leafy world 

We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl’d 

In the recesses of a pearly shell. 
And can I ever bid these joys farewell? 

Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, 

Where I may find the agonies, the strife 

Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar, 

O’ersailing the blue cragginess, a car 

And steeds with streamy manes- the charioteer 

Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear: 

And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly 

Along a huge cloud’s ridge; and now with sprightly 

Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, 

Tipt round with silver from the sun’s bright eyes. 

Still downward with capacious whirl they glide; 

And now I see them on the green-hill’s side 

In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 

The charioteer with wond’rous gesture talks 

To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear 

Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, 

Passing along before a dusky space 

Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase 

Some ever- fleeting music on they sweep. 

Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep: 

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe; 

Some with their faces muffled to the ear 

Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom, 

Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom; 

Some looking back, and some with upward gaze; 

Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways 

Flit onward- now a lovely wreath of girls 

Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls; 

And now broad wings. Most awfully intent 

The driver of those steeds is forward bent, 

And seems to listen: O that I might know 

All that he writes with such a hurrying glow. 
The visions all are fled- the car is fled 

Into the light of heaven, and in their stead 

A sense of real things comes doubly strong, 

And, like a muddy stream, would bear along 

My soul to nothingness: but I will strive 

Against all doubtings, and will keep alive 

The thought of that same chariot, and the strange 

Journey it went. 

Is there so small a range 

In the present strength of manhood, that the high 

Imagination cannot freely fly 

As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds, 

Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 

Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us all? 

From the clear space of ether, to the small 

Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning 

Of Jove’s large eye-brow, to the tender greening 

Of April meadows? Here her altar shone, 

E’en in this isle; and who could paragon 

The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 

Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 

Its mighty self of convoluting sound, 

Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, 

Eternally around a dizzy void? 

Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy’d 

With honors; nor had any other care 

Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair. 
Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism 

Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, 

Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 

Men were thought wise who could not understand 

His glories: with a puling infant’s force 

They sway’d about upon a rocking horse, 

And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul’d! 

The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll’d 

Its gathering waves- ye felt it not. The blue 

Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 

Of summer nights collected still to make 

The morning precious: beauty was awake! 

Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead 

To things ye knew not of,- were closely wed 

To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 

And compass vile: so that ye taught a school 

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, 

Till, like the certain wands of Jacob’s wit, 

Their verses tallied. Easy was the task: 

A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 

Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race! 

That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face, 

And did not know it,- no, they went about, 

Holding a poor, decrepid standard out 

Mark’d with most flimsy mottos, and in large 

The name of one Boileau! 
O ye whose charge 

It is to hover round our pleasant hills! 

Whose congregated majesty so fills 

My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 

Your hallowed names, in this unholy place, 

So near those common folk; did not their shames 

Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames 

Delight you? Did ye never cluster round 

Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, 

And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 

To regions where no more the laurel grew? 

Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 

To some lone spirits who could proudly sing 

Their youth away, and die? ‘Twas even so: 

But let me think away those times of woe: 

Now ’tis a fairer season; ye have breathed 

Rich benedictions o’er us; ye have wreathed 

Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard 

In many places;- some has been upstirr’d 

From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, 

By a swan’s ebon bill; from a thick brake, 

Nested and quiet in a valley mild, 

Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild 

About the earth: happy are ye and glad. 
These things are doubtless: yet in truth we’ve had 

Strange thunders from the potency of song; 

Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong, 

From majesty: but in clear truth the themes 

Are ugly clubs, the Poets’ Polyphemes 

Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower 

Of light is poesy; ’tis the supreme of power; 

‘Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm. 

The very archings of her eye-lids charm 

A thousand willing agents to obey, 

And still she governs with the mildest sway: 

But strength alone though of the Muses born 

Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn, 

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres 

Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs, 

And thorns of life; forgetting the great end 

Of poesy, that it should be a friend 

To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. 
Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than 

E’er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 

Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 

A silent space with ever sprouting green. 

All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, 

Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, 

Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 

Then let us clear away the choking thorns 

From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns, 

Yeaned in after times, when we are flown, 

Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 

With simple flowers: let there nothing be 

More boisterous than a lover’s bended knee; 

Nought more ungentle than the placid look 

Of one who leans upon a closed book; 

Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes 

Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes! 

As she was wont, th’ imagination 

Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 

And they shall be accounted poet kings 

Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. 

O may these joys be ripe before I die. 
Will not some say that I presumptuously 

Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace 

‘Twere better far to hide my foolish face? 

That whining boyhood should with reverence bow 

Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How! 

If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 

In the very fane, the light of Poesy: 

If I do fall, at least I will be laid 

Beneath the silence of a poplar shade; 

And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven; 

And there shall be a kind memorial graven. 

But off Despondence! miserable bane! 

They should not know thee, who athirst to gain 

A noble end, are thirsty every hour. 

What though I am not wealthy in the dower 

Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know 

The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow 

Hither and thither all the changing thoughts 

Of man: though no great minist’ring reason sorts 

Out the dark mysteries of human souls 

To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls 

A vast idea before me, and I glean 

Therefrom my liberty; thence too I’ve seen 

The end and aim of Poesy. ‘Tis clear 

As anything most true; as that the year 

Is made of the four seasons- manifest 

As a large cross, some old cathedral’s crest, 

Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I 

Be but the essence of deformity, 

A coward, did my very eye-lids wink 

At speaking out what I have dared to think. 

Ah! rather let me like a madman run 

Over some precipice; let the hot sun 

Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down 

Convuls’d and headlong! Stay! an inward frown 

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. 

An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, 

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil! 

How many days! what desperate turmoil! 

Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 

Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees, 

I could unsay those- no, impossible! 

For sweet relief I’ll dwell 

On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay 

Begun in gentleness die so away. 

E’en now all tumult from my bosom fades: 

I turn full hearted to the friendly aids 

That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood, 

And friendliness the nurse of mutual good. 

The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet 

Into the brain ere one can think upon it; 

The silence when some rhymes are coming out; 

And when they’re come, the very pleasant rout: 

The message certain to be done to-morrow. 

‘Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow 

Some precious book from out its snug retreat, 

To cluster round it when we next shall meet. 

Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs 

Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs; 

Many delights of that glad day recalling, 

When first my senses caught their tender falling. 

And with these airs come forms of elegance 

Stooping their shoulders o’er a horse’s prance, 

Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round 

Parting luxuriant curls;- and the swift bound 

Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye 

Made Ariadne’s cheek look blushingly. 

Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 

Of words at opening a portfolio. 
Things such as these are ever harbingers 

To trains of peaceful images: the stirs 

Of a swan’s neck unseen among the rushes: 

A linnet starting all about the bushes: 

A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted, 

Nestling a rose, convuls’d as though it smarted 

With over pleasure- many, many more, 

Might I indulge at large in all my store 

Of luxuries: yet I must not forget 

Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet: 

For what there may be worthy in these rhymes 

I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes 

Of friendly voices had just given place 

To as sweet a silence, when I ‘gan retrace 

The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 

It was a poet’s house who keeps the keys 

Of pleasure’s temple. Round about were hung 

The glorious features of the bards who sung 

In other ages- cold and sacred busts 

Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts 

To clear Futurity his darling fame! 

Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim 

At swelling apples with a frisky leap 

And reaching fingers, ‘mid a luscious heap 

Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane 

Of liny marble, and thereto a train 

Of nymphs approaching fairly o’er the sward: 

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward 

The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet 

Bending their graceful figures till they meet 

Over the trippings of a little child: 

And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 

Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 

See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping 

Cherishingly Diana’s timorous limbs;- 

A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 

At the bath’s edge, and keeps a gentle motion 

With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean 

Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o’er 

Its rocky marge, and balances once more 

The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam 

Feel all about their undulating home. 
Sappho’s meek head was there half smiling down 

At nothing; just as though the earnest frown 

Of over thinking had that moment gone 

From off her brow, and left her all alone. 
Great Alfred’s too, with anxious, pitying eyes, 

As if he always listened to the sighs 

Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko’s worn 

By horrid suffrance- mightily forlorn. 

Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green, 

Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean 

His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they! 

For over them was seen a free display 

Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone 

The face of Poesy: from off her throne 

She overlook’d things that I scarce could tell. 

The very sense of where I was might well 

Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came 

Thought after thought to nourish up the flame 

Within my breast; so that the morning light 

Surprised me even from a sleepless night; 

And up I rose refresh’d, and glad, and gay, 

Resolving to begin that very day 

These lines; and howsoever they be done, 

I leave them as a father does his son. 

Poem – Homecoming – Paul Celan

Snowfall, denser and denser, 

dove-coloured as yesterday, 

snowfall, as if even now you were sleeping. 
White, stacked into distance. 

Above it, endless, 

the sleigh track of the lost. 
Below, hidden, 

presses up 

what so hurts the eyes, 

hill upon hill, 

On each, 

fetched home into its today, 

an I slipped away into dumbness: 

wooden, a post. 
There: a feeling, 

blown across by the ice wind 

attaching its dove- its snow- 

coloured cloth as a flag.

Poem – Corona – Paul Celan

Autunm eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends. 

From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk: 

then time returns to the shell. 
In the mirror it’s Sunday, 

in dream there is room for sleeping, 

our mouths speak the truth. 
My eye moves down to the sex of my loved one: 

we look at each other, 

we exchange dark words, 

we love each other like poppy and recollection, 

we sleep like wine in the conches, 

like the sea in the moon’s blood ray. 
We stand by the window embracing, and people look up from 

the street: 

it is time they knew! 

It is time the stone made an effort to flower, 

time unrest had a beating heart. 

It is time it were time. 

It is time. 

Poem – A Dialogue Of Self And Soul – William Butler Yeats

i{My Soul} I summon to the winding ancient stair; 

Set all your mind upon the steep ascent, 

Upon the broken, crumbling battlement, 

Upon the breathless starlit air, 

‘Upon the star that marks the hidden pole; 

Fix every wandering thought upon 

That quarter where all thought is done: 

Who can distinguish darkness from the soul 

i{My Self}. The consecretes blade upon my knees 

Is Sato’s ancient blade, still as it was, 

Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass 

Unspotted by the centuries; 

That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn 

From some court-lady’s dress and round 

The wodden scabbard bound and wound 

Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn 

i{My Soul.} Why should the imagination of a man 

Long past his prime remember things that are 

Emblematical of love and war? 

Think of ancestral night that can, 

If but imagination scorn the earth 

And interllect is wandering 

To this and that and t’other thing, 

Deliver from the crime of death and birth. 

i{My self.} Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it 

Five hundred years ago, about it lie 

Flowers from I know not what embroidery — 

Heart’s purple — and all these I set 

For emblems of the day against the tower 

Emblematical of the night, 

And claim as by a soldier’s right 

A charter to commit the crime once more. 

i{My Soul.} Such fullness in that quarter overflows 

And falls into the basin of the mind 

That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind, 

For intellect no longer knows 

i{Is} from the i{Ought,} or i{knower} from the i{Known — } 

That is to say, ascends to Heaven; 

Only the dead can be forgiven; 

But when I think of that my tongue’s a stone. 

i{My Self.} A living man is blind and drinks his drop. 

What matter if the ditches are impure? 

What matter if I live it all once more? 

Endure that toil of growing up; 

The ignominy of boyhood; the distress 

Of boyhood changing into man; 

The unfinished man and his pain 

Brought face to face with his own clumsiness; 

The finished man among his enemies? — 

How in the name of Heaven can he escape 

That defiling and disfigured shape 

The mirror of malicious eyes 

Casts upon his eyes until at last 

He thinks that shape must be his shape? 

And what’s the good of an escape 

If honour find him in the wintry blast? 

I am content to live it all again 

And yet again, if it be life to pitch 

Into the frog-spawn of a blind man’s ditch, 

A blind man battering blind men; 

Or into that most fecund ditch of all, 

The folly that man does 

Or must suffer, if he woos 

A proud woman not kindred of his soul. 

I am content to follow to its source 

Every event in action or in thought; 

Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot! 

When such as I cast out remorse 

So great a sweetness flows into the breast 

We must laugh and we must sing, 

We are blest by everything, 

Everything we look upon is blest.

Poem – The Seeker – Gautam Buddha 

The SeekerRestraint in the eye is good, good is restraint in the ear,

in the nose restraint is good, good is restraint in the tongue. 

In the body restraint is good, good is restraint in speech, 

in thought restraint is good, good is restraint in all things. 

A Bhikshu, restrained in all things, is freed from all pain.
He who controls his hand, 

he who controls his feet, 

he who controls his speech, 

he who is well controlled, 

he who delights inwardly, 

who is collected, 

who is solitary and content, 

him they call Bhikshu. 
The Bhikshu who controls his mouth, 

who speaks wisely and calmly, 

who teaches the meaning and the law, 

his word is sweet. 
He who dwells in the law, 

delights in the law, 

meditates on the law, 

follows the law, 

that Bhikshu will never fall away from the true law. 
Let him not despise what he has received, nor ever envy others: 

a mendicant who envies others does not obtain peace of mind. 
A Bhikshu who, 

though he receives little, 

does not despise what he has received, 

even the gods will praise him, 

if his life is pure, 

and if he is not slothful. 
He who never identifies himself with name and form, 

and does not grieve over what is no more, 

he indeed is called a Bhikshu. 
The Bhikshu who acts with kindness, 

who is calm in the doctrine of Buddha, 

will reach the quiet place (Nirvana) , 

cessation of natural desires, and happiness. 
O Bhikshu, empty this boat! if emptied, it will go quickly;

having cut off passion and hatred thou wilt go to Nirvana. 
Cut off the five (senses) , leave the five, rise above the five. 

A Bhikshu, who has escaped from the five fetters, 

he is called Oghatinna, `saved from the flood.’ 
Meditate, O Bhikshu, and be not heedless! Do not direct thy 

thought to what gives pleasure that thou mayest not for thy 

heedlessness have to swallow the iron ball (in hell) , and that thou 

mayest not cry out when burning, `This is pain.’ 
Without knowledge there is no meditation, without meditation 

there is no knowledge: 

he who has knowledge and meditation is near unto Nirvana. 
A Bhikshu who has entered his empty house, 

and whose mind is tranquil, 

feels a more than human delight when he sees the law clearly. 
As soon as he has considered the origin and destruction of the 

elements (khandha) of the body, he finds happiness and joy which 

belong to those who know the immortal (Nirvana) . 
And this is the beginning here for a wise Bhikshu: watchfulness 

over the senses, contentedness, restraint under the law; keep noble 

friends whose life is pure, and who are not slothful. 
Let him live in charity, let him be perfect in his duties; then 

in the fulness of delight he will make an end of suffering. 
As the Vassika plant sheds its withered flowers, men should shed 

passion and hatred, O ye Bhikshus! 
The Bhikshu whose body and tongue and mind are quieted, who is 

collected, and has rejected the baits of the world, he is called quiet. 
Rouse thyself by thyself, examine thyself by thyself, thus self- 

protected and attentive wilt thou live happily, O Bhikshu! 
For self is the lord of self, self is the refuge of self; 

therefore curb thyself as the merchant curbs a good horse. 
The Bhikshu, full of delight, who is calm in the doctrine of 

Buddha will reach the quiet place (Nirvana) , 

cessation of natural desires, and happiness. 
He who, even as a young Bhikshu, 

applies himself to the doctrine of Buddha, 

brightens up this world, 

like the moon when free from clouds.

Poem – Poems On Love – Rabindranath Tagore

Love adorns itself; 

it seeks to prove inward joy by outward beauty. 
Love does not claim possession, 

but gives freedom. 
Love is an endless mystery, 

for it has nothing else to explain it. 
Love’s gift cannot be given, 

it waits to be accepted.

Poem – The Twin Verses – Gautam Buddha 

What we are is the result of what we have thought, 

is built by our thoughts, is made up of our thoughts. 

If one speaks or acts with an impure thought, 

suffering follows one, 

like the wheel of the cart follows the foot of the ox. 
What we are is the result of what we have thought, 

is built by our thoughts, is made up of our thoughts. 

If one speaks or acts with a pure thought, 

happiness follows one, 

like a shadow that never leaves. 
‘They insulted me; they hurt me; 

they defeated me; they cheated me.’ 

In those who harbour such thoughts, 

hate will never cease. 
‘They insulted me; they hurt me; 

they defeated me; they cheated me.’ 

In those who do not harbour such thoughts, 

hate will cease. 
For hate is never conquered by hate. 

Hate is conquered by love. 

This is an eternal law. 

Many do not realise that we must all come to an end here; 

but those who do realise this, end their quarrels at once. 
Whoever lives only for pleasures, 

with senses uncontrolled, 

immoderate in eating, lazy, and weak, 

will be overthrown by Mara, 

like the wind throws down a weak tree. 
Whoever lives not for pleasures, 

with senses well controlled, 

moderate in eating, has faith and the power of virtue, 

will not be overthrown by Mara, 

any more than the wind throws down a rocky mountain.
Whoever would put on the yellow robe 

without having cleansed oneself from impurity, 

disregarding self-control and truth, 

is not deserving of the yellow robe. 
But whoever has cleansed oneself from impurity, 

is well grounded in all the virtues, 

and is possessed of self-control and truth, 

is deserving of the yellow robe. 
Those who imagine truth in untruth 

and see untruth in truth 

never arrive at truth but follow vain desires. 

Those who know truth as truth and untruth as untruth 

arrive at truth and follow true desires. 
As rain makes its way into a badly roofed house, 

so passion makes its way into an unreflecting mind. 

As rain does not make its way into a well roofed house,

so passion does not make its way into a reflecting mind. 
Wrong-doers grieve in this world, 

and they grieve in the next; they grieve in both. 

They grieve and are afflicted 

when they see the wrong they have done. 
The virtuous find joy in this world, 

and they find joy in the next; they find joy in both. 

They find joy and are glad 

when they see the good they have done. 
Wrong-doers suffer in this world, 

and they suffer in the next; they suffer in both. 

They suffer when they think of the wrong they have done. 

They suffer even more when going on the wrong path. 
The virtuous are happy in this world, 

and they are happy in the next; they are happy in both. 

They are happy when they think of the good they have done. 

They are even happier when going on the good path. 
Even if the thoughtless can recite many of the scriptures, 

if they do not act accordingly, 

they are not living the holy life, 

but are like a cowherd counting the cows of others. 
Even if the faithful can recite 

only a few of the scriptures, 

if they act accordingly, 

having given up passion, hate, and folly, 

being possessed of true knowledge and serenity of mind, 

craving nothing in this world or the next, 

they are living the holy life.