The summer has come,

      The summer has gone,

      And the maple leaves lift fairy hands

      That ripple upon the winds of dawn

      Where the dim pagoda stands.

      They ripple and beckon yearningly

      To their sister fairies over the sea,

      But help comes not,

      So they fall and flee

      From Autumn over the sands.

      And down the mountain

      And into the tide,

      Some are blown where the sampans glide,

      And some are strewn by the temple's side,

      And some by the torii.

      But Autumn ever

      Pursues them till,

      As ever before,

      She has her will,

      And leaves them desolate, dead and still,

      Ravished afar and wide;

      Leaves them desolate; crying shrill,

      "No beauty shall abide!"

      I was weary and slept on the Peak;

      The air clung close like a shroud,

      And ever the blue-fly's buzz in my ear

      Hung haunting and hot and loud;

      I awoke and the sky was dun

      With awe and a dread that soon

      Went shuddering thro my heart, for I knew

      That it meant typhoon! typhoon!

      In the harbour below, far down,

      The junks like fowl in a flock

      Were tossing in wingless terror, or fled

      Fluttering in from the shock.

      The city, a breathless bend

      Of roofs, by the water strewn,

      Lay silent and waiting, yet there was none

      Within it but said typhoon!

      Then it came, like a million winds

      Gone mad immeasurably,

      A torrid and tortuous tempest stung

      By rape of the fair South Sea.

      And it swept like a scud escaped

      From craters of sun or moon,

      And struck as no power of Heaven could,

      Or of Hell – typhoon! typhoon!

      And the junks were smitten and torn,

      The drowning struggled and cried,

      Or, dashed on the granite walls of the sea,

      In succourless hundreds died.

      Till I shut the sight from my eyes

      And prayed for my soul to swoon:

      If ever I see God's face, let it

      Be guiltless of that typhoon!

      I want to go back to Singapore

      And ship along the Straits,

      To a bungalow I know beside Penang;

      Where cocoanut palms along the shore

      Are waving, and the gates

      Of Peace shut Sorrow out forevermore.

      I want to go back and hear the surf

      Come beating in at night,

      Like the washing of eternity over the dead.

      I want to see dawn fare up and day

      Go down in golden light;

      I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back!

      I want to go back to Singapore

      And up along the Straits

      To the bungalow that waits me by the tide.

      Where the Tamil and Malay tell their lore

      At evening – and the fates

      Have set no soothless canker at life's core.

      I want to go back and mend my heart

      Beneath the tropic moon,

      While the tamarind-tree is whispering thoughts of sleep.

      I want to believe that Earth again

      With Heaven is in tune.

      I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back!

      I want to go back to Singapore

      And ship along the Straits

      To the bungalow I left upon the strand.

      Where the foam of the world grows faint before

      It enters, and abates

      In meaning as I hear the palm-wind pour.

      I want to go back and end my days

      Some evening when the Cross

      On the southern sky hangs heavily far and sad.

      I want to remember when I die

      That life elsewhere was loss.

      I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back!

      When the wind is low, and the sea is soft,

      And the far heat-lightning plays

      On the rim of the West where dark clouds nest

      On a darker bank of haze;

      When I lean o'er the rail with you that I love

      And gaze to my heart's content;

      I know that the heavens are there above —

      But you are my firmament.

      When the phosphor-stars are thrown from the bow

      And the watch climbs up the shroud;

      When the dim mast dips as the vessel slips

      Thro the foam that seethes aloud;

      I know that the years of our life are few,

      And fain as a bird to flee,

      That time is as brief as a drop of dew —

      But you are Eternity.

      All night long the pagoda slave

      Hears the wind-bells high in the air

      Tinkle with low sweet tongue and grave

      In praise of Lord Gautama.

      All night long where the lone spire sends

      Its golden height to the starry light

      He hears their tune

      And watches the moon

      And fears he shall never reach Nirvana.

      Round and round by a hundred shrines

      Glittering