THOSE friends of Lao-Tzu, those wise old men <br />Dozing all day in lemon-silken robes, <br />With tomes of beaten jade spread knee to knee, <br />And pipe-stem, shining cold with silver, poised <br />In steaming play, and still a finger free <br />To dog the path of some forgotten pen; <br />Almost their bee-sweet ancient words incline <br />My mind to those old pagan ways, beloved <br />By mandarins and mages, now but dust <br />In drowsy pyramids. What creed is this, <br />Save that which those philosophers discussed <br />In gold pavilions, over musky wine? <br />'Repenting always of forgotten wrongs <br />Will never bring thy heart to rest, for thought <br />Repairs no whit of evil; rather cast <br />Thy meditations in that utter void <br />To which all human deeds resolve at last . . . .' <br />So runs the burden of their thousand songs. <br />Here, in this dark Star-Chamber of the soul, <br />You stand arraigned, O slayer of my heart . . . <br />But I am tired of hoarding up the grist <br />Of anger, and remember Lao-Tzu. <br />Revenge is empty to the Taoist, <br />And tears of penitence a futile toll!<br /><br />Kenneth Slessor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/taoist/
