1

I am a house, says Senlin, locked and darkened, 
Sealed from the sun with wall and door and blind. 
Summon me loudly, and you'll hear slow footsteps 
Ring far and faint in the galleries of my mind. 
You'll hear soft steps on an old and dusty stairway; 
Peer darkly through some corner of a pane, 
You'll see me with a faint light coming slowly, 
Pausing above some gallery of the brain . . .

I am a city . . . In the blue light of evening 
Wind wanders among my streets and makes them fair; 
I am a room of rock . . . a maiden dances 
Lifting her hands, tossing her golden hair. 
She combs her hair, the room of rock is darkened, 
She extends herself in me, and I am sleep. 
It is my pride that starlight is above me; 
I dream amid waves of air, my walls are deep.

I am a door . . . before me roils the darkness, 
Behind me ring clear waves of sound and light. 
Stand in the shadowy street outside, and listen-- 
The crying of violins assails the night . . . 
My walls are deep, but the cries of music pierce them; 
They shake with the sound of drums . . . yet it is strange 
That I should know so little what means this music, 
Hearing it always within me change and change.

Knock on the door,--and you shall have an answer. 
Open the heavy walls to set me free, 
And blow a horn to call me into the sunlight,-- 
And startled, then, what a strange thing you will see! 
Nuns, murderers, and drunkards, saints and sinners, 
Lover and dancing girl and sage and clown 
Will laugh upon you, and you will find me nowhere. 
I am a room, a house, a street, a town.

2

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning 
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew, 
I arise, I face the sunrise, 
And do the things my fathers learned to do. 
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops 
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die, 
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet 
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.

Vine leaves tap my window, 
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, 
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree 
Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror 
And tie my tie once more. 
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight 
Crash on a white sand shore. 
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair: 
How small and white my face!-- 
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air 
And bathes in a flame of space. 
There are houses hanging above the stars 
And stars hung under a sea . . . 
And a sun far off in a shell of silence 
Dapples my walls for me . . .

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning 
Should I not pause in the light to remember God? 
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable, 
He is immense and lonely as a cloud. 
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror 
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair. 
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence! 
I will think of you as I descend the stair.

Vine leaves tap my window, 
The snail-track shines on the stones, 
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree 
Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence, 
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep. 
The walls are about me still as in the evening, 
I am the same, and the same name still I keep. 
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion, 
The stars pale silently in a coral sky. 
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, 
Unconcerned, I tie my tie.

There are horses neighing on far-off hills 
Tossing their long white manes, 
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk, 
Their shoulders black with rains . . .

It is morning. I stand by the mirror 
And surprise my soul once more; 
The blue air rushes above my ceiling, 
There are suns beneath my floor . . .

. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness 
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where, 
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket, 
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair. 
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven, 
And a god among the stars; and I will go 
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak 
And humming a tune I know . . .

Vine-leaves tap at the window, 
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones, 
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree 
Repeating three clear tones.

3

I walk to my work, says Senlin, along a street 
Superbly hung in space. 
I lift these mortal stones, and with my trowel 
I tap them into place. 
But is god, perhaps, a giant who ties his tie 
Grimacing before a colossal glass of sky?

These stones are heavy, these stones decay, 
These stones are wet with rain, 
I build them into a wall today, 
Tomorrow they fall again.

Does god arise from a chaos of starless sleep