English

Could you tell me the way to Somewhere —
Some where, Some where,
I have heard of a place called Somewhere —
But know not where it can be.
It makes no difference,
Whether or not
I go in dreams
Or trudge on foot:
Would you tell me the way to Somewhere,

Dawn turned on her purple pillow
— And late, late came the winter day,
Snow was curved to the boughs of the willow.
— The sunless world was white and grey.

At noon we heard a blue-jay scolding,
— At five the last thin light was lost
From snow-banked windows faintly holding
— The feathery filigree of frost.

(A Retrospect.)

Convulsions came; and, where the field
Long slept in pastoral green,
A goblin-mountain was upheaved
(Sure the scared sense was all deceived),
Marl-glen and slag-ravine.

The unreserve of Ill was there,
The clinkers in her last retreat;
But, ere the eye could take it in,
Or mind could comprehension win,
It sunk! — and at our feet.

So, then, Solidity's a crust —
The core of fire below;
All may go well for many a year,
But who can think without a fear

The [weal] countless gold of a merry heart
The rubies & pearls of a loving eye
The [idle man] indolent never can bring to the mart
Nor the [cunning] secret hoard up in his treasury

Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating--
Where will all come home?

On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.

Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.

Dank , limber verses, stuft with lakeside sedges,
And propt with rotten stakes from broken hedges.

Dawn breaks, snow patches lie on the slopes:
far away, they seem like flocks of sheep
or maybe geese.
Remember — plodding through spring mud
to see the budding willows,
in camel-hair robe and sable hat
crossing the icy river.

Darkness marks the distance where river meets ocean;
I long for my friend — may he arrive with spring!
Vast, vast the moonlight scatters on the ripples;
in the sighing of the wind, fishermen's fires appear.

“Dark fragrance, sparse shadows,”
east of the zigzag balustrade:
a thousand trees of flowering plum,
a single old man.
White hair like white blossoms,
white blossoms like snow;
late at night, in the moonlight,
it's hard to tell the difference.

Dark, dark, far mists rise;
swish, swish, sparse woods echo.
Setting sun, west mountains disappear;
a man is plowing the ancient plain.