Poems (Forrest)/Fo-tai-ho-chung
FO-TAI-HO-CHUNG(The God of Contentment)
Oh, fat white god on the cedar shelf!
I scarce dare look in your cheery face,
For every crease of your body cries:
"When Man so long in the dark earth lies
Why lose one moment of light and grace?
I scarce dare look in your cheery face,
For every crease of your body cries:
"When Man so long in the dark earth lies
Why lose one moment of light and grace?
"Get fat—like me—on your happiness!
When the end is come, then your ghost may stay
In some lush corner of fecund earth,
Waiting the call to a bright rebirth,
And planning jollity all the way."
When the end is come, then your ghost may stay
In some lush corner of fecund earth,
Waiting the call to a bright rebirth,
And planning jollity all the way."
With the soles of his feet upturned he sits,
One hand is holding a wreath of grass,
He smiles secure thro' our changing hours,
For his dreams are threaded with deathless flowers—
There is only gold in his hour-glass.
One hand is holding a wreath of grass,
He smiles secure thro' our changing hours,
For his dreams are threaded with deathless flowers—
There is only gold in his hour-glass.
Out of the rainbow he stole a prism,
That the light of his skies be never dim;
His soul is a well of happiness
Till the world seems naught but a huge wine-press
Squeezing the joy of life for him.
That the light of his skies be never dim;
His soul is a well of happiness
Till the world seems naught but a huge wine-press
Squeezing the joy of life for him.
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.