THE CENTURY OF LIFE
TRUTH
Dear as his own sweet mother to the man Of truth his word is, dear as his heart’s blood. Truth, ’tis the mother of his soul’s great brood, High modesty and virtue’s lordly clan. Exceeding pure of heart as to a youth His mother, and like a mother to him cleaves This sweet proud goddess. Rather life he leaves And happiness puts away, not divine Truth. Others clasp some dear vice, gold, woman, wine; He keeps for Truth his passion fiery and fine.
WOMAN’S HEART
More hard the heart of woman is to seize
Than an unreal mirrored face, more hard
Her moods to follow than on mountains barred With rocks that skirt a dreadful precipice A dangerous luring pathway near the skies.
And transient is her frail exacting love
Like dew that on some lotus’ petal lies. As with rich fatal shoots an upas-grove,
Woman with faults is born, with faults she grows, Thorns are her nature, but her face the rose.
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