English

Bring cypress, rosemary and rue
For him who kept his rudder true;
Who held to right the people's will,
And for whose foes we love him still.

A man of Plutarch's marble mold,
Of virtues strong and manifold,
Who spurned the incense of the hour,
And made the nation's weal his dower.

His sturdy, rugged sense of right
Put selfish purpose out of sight;
Slowly he thought, but long and well,
With temper imperturbable.

Bring cypress, rosemary and rue
For him who kept his rudder true;

Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabella!
Bring a torch, to the cradle run!
It is Jesus, good folk of the village;
Christ is born, and Mary's calling;
Ah! Ah! beautiful is the mother;
Ah! Ah! beautiful is her son.

It is wrong when the Child is sleeping,
It is wrong to talk so loud;
Silence, all, as you gather around,
Lest your noise should waken Jesus:
Hush! Hush! see how fast He slumbers;
Hush! Hush! see how fast He sleeps.

Who goes there a-knocking so loudly?
Who goes there a-knocking like that?

Swiftly riding past the willows,
My traveling cloak heavy and wet with dew.
Lone shadow of a roosting egret astir
As it drowsily eyes the sandbank —
Fish and shrimp haunting its dreams.

Bright moon, a sprinkling of stars
Bathe the stream in a blaze of light.
Graceful the shadow of a young washer of silks:
A bashful smile to passersby,
And she is off to
Where her baby is crying at the door.

Low hang the eaves of the thatched hut,
Green, green grows the grass beside the brook.
To whose family belongs that tipsy white-haired couple,
Chatting and merry-making in the dulcet accents of the south?

Their eldest son is hoeing the bean-field east of the brook,
The second is busy weaving a hen-coop;
But the one they think most lovable is the youngest, that scamp of a boy:
Lo! he is sprawled on the bank peeling lotus pods!

It was at the Noon Bridge we were drinking —
Most of us men of high talent and ambition.
The stream below with a shimmering moon in its lap
Was gliding silently away into the distance;
In the sparse shadows of blossoming apricot
Wafted the notes of a flute till daybreak.

Twenty-odd summers gone by fleet as a dream,
unsettling — to find myself here still.
Idly I ascend the small tower
For a view of the scene after rain,
Regaled with snatches of the fishermen's midnight song
Telling of the vicissitudes of past and present.

Bright shadows of true Rest! some shoots of blisse,
Heaven once a week;
The next worlds gladnes prepossest in this;
A day to seek
Eternity in time; the steps by which
We Climb above all ages; Lamps that light
Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich,
And full redemption of the whole weeks flight.

The Pulleys unto headlong man; times bower;
The narrow way;
Transplanted Paradise; Gods walking houre;
The Cool o' th' day;

The bright sea washed beneath her feet,
As it had done of yore,
The well-remembered odor sweet
Came through her opening door.

Again the grass his ripened head
Bowed where her raiment swept;
Again the fog-bell told of dread,
And all the landscape wept.

Again beside the woodland bars
She found the wilding rose,
With petals fine and heart of stars, —
The flower our childhood knows.

And there, before that blossom small,
By its young face beguiled,
The woman saw her burden fall,

Golden chrysanthemums just in bloom
Tell of the approach of the Double Ninth Festival.
A bounteous gift from Heaven these autumnal tints,
Which however bring sadness in their train
As circumstances change.
I try on my thin dress, taste new-brewed wine,
Aware that I am in for
A spell of wind,
A spell of rain,
A spell of cold.

Yellowing twilight fills my rooms
With gloom and anxiety.
Memories of heartrending sorrow
Overwhelm me as I sober up from wine.
An unending night,

Bright be the skies that cover thee,
—Child of the sunny brow,—
Bright as the dream flung over thee
—By all that meets thee now,—
Thy heart is beating joyously,
—Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
—Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be
—As beautiful as now,
That time might ever leave as free
—Thy yet unwritten brow.
I would life were all poetry
—To gentle measure set,

Bright as the light that burns at night,
In the starry depths of Aiden,
When star and moon in leafy June
With love and joy are laden;
Bright as the light from moon and star,
Stars in glorious cluster,
Be the lights that shine on this life of thine
Be the beauty of its lustre.

Beneath the moon in leafy June,
Sweet vows are fondly spoken;
Beneath the stars, the silvery tune
Of music floats unbroken.
Beneath the sky, and moon and stars,
Come nestling birds of beauty,