Short Poems

In England there is a town called Leicester; in London there is a square by that name; in the square daily stand three sisters — the girls are known to everyone .
The youngest sells flowers, the middle one sells shoe laces, and late at night comes the eldest, who sells herself .
Both the younger ones look at the eldest without hate, for all the three girls despise the world and the town and the street .
And yet when the two young ones come to the nest they call a home — they moisten strings and flowers with tears that remain hidden .

Around thy tomb may clustering ivy grow,
And delicate blooms of purple meads abound,
Anacreon! May white milk in fountains flow,
And streams of wine well from the sacred ground,
So that if aught of joy reach shades below,
Some pleasure still thine ashes dear may know,
Immortal bard who soughtst life's sunny ways,
And filledst with love and song the measure of thy days.

What is it, that happened to my hair? A miracle took place over night .
'Twas a knot, blonde, heavy and hard — and lo today it is glittering, smooth and soft .
'Twas a coil, short, tight and wild — and now it's streaming wildly to my ankle .
And now like melted, glowing gold — the hair, that has rested on your breast .

There's a town in Lithuania on the shores of the Wilia — whichever way my eyes look, that town meets my gaze .
There's an alley there, and close by, a little house — methinks I would give away half my years for that little house .
And a child lives in the little house, whom I love as my life — all my years I would give away for this child .

Thee, too, O Cleionorides, the desire
Of thy native land has ruined in thy prime,
For thou didst rashly brave the stormy ire
Of treacherous winds and waves in wintertime.
Thus thy young charms were whelmed in the wild sea,
And quiring surges sang a dirge o'er thee.

Shall I conceal myself somewhere and cry inaudibly, with bowed head — and dry again my tired eyes that never, never have any rest —
And let, as heretofore, my glance wander off into gray distances and cast it hither-thither, pursuing fortune in morbid anxiety —
Or shall I cast myself in wild despair into the gutter with flaming eyes and, tigress-like, growl in pain, with nostrils distended in heavy breath —
Or shall I hide myself somewhere and cry inaudibly with bowed head? — — —

Charmingly the summer greets my beloved friends, who go to meet it in everyday clothes and with grey faces. And charmingly the summer greets my dear friends, who look at it from the distance through the grey windows of their dwellings and cannot go to meet it. Whatever summer awakens in the trees, it also awakens in them. Whatever summer stirs in the soil, summer stirs in them, too; but — it remains in them smiling in quiet shyness, for they are too tired to blossom forth verdant and tall like trees, for they are too tired to reveal themselves as boundless as the fields .

Life is a bulky harp with long, long strings. God, with my frail fingers I wish to seize the strings .
Yet I wish to rouse no one, nor to console nor to scare. Thus I choose the softest melody to lull myself to sleep .

Dear seven brothers, we write you the truth, but the ocean between us makes the truth appear paler .
We are well-off over here: we have fuel to burn, we have salt for our bread, and as yet it is the old songs we are singing day and night; and fish, and birds, and rainbows we have too. But our Beauty meanders along all evil roads and talks as befits but a woman of the streets. She lives on the main avenue and makes us feel ashamed, us seven brothers .
We greet you and send you herewith three wild nuts weighing seven measures, a flask of oil, and two dried fishes .

How pleasant 'tis at ease to wander through
The flower-enamelled meads,
Strolling when winds are soft and skies are blue
Whither one's fancy leads.
How sweet, beneath the shadow of the vine
Which tender tendrils wreathes,
With a deep-bosomed maid to sit supine,
Who wholly of Cypris breathes.