English

The winds of the winter are over,
The flowers and the green leaves return;
The meadow is mantled in clover,
The hillock is scented with fern;
The blue-birds are flitting and singing
Their love-notes in thicket and tree,
But the flowers and the sweet birds are bringing
No spring and no beauty to me.

My hopes have departed for ever,
My vision of true love is o'er,
My heart shall awaken — ah! never,
There 's a spring to my bosom no more;
The roses that crowned me are blighted,

Sure 'tis the greatest honour of a Peere,
(Presuppose that excepted, makes him beare
Ensignes of Honour above other men:)
Nere to the presenc Chamber to be then,
Charily eying of his Soveraign Prince,
Ever beholding him, without offence,
Regarding which, the Peers who vertuously

Chuse above others to walk worthily,
O they enjoy the presenc of that Sunne
Most gloriously, from whence their lustre come.
Presse then into the presenc , and regard
That Majestic, which you doth so reward:

Ever since childhood this constant traveler
Has floated and drifted without a place to stay
Last fall stationed at the edges of the Yangtze
This spring traveling along the banks of the Yellow
I was sent off up with the corvee laborers
Wanting always to talk of my memories of Chu
In the pool chilly and cold the minnows are few
Along the islands sadly honking the geese call
Heavy and hard the steady wind hammers the boat
Heaving and hauling the sails are raised high
The violent waves offer no way of lingering

She has no heart, but she is fair, —
The rose, the lily, can't outvie her;
She smiles so sweetly, that the air
Seems full of light and beauty nigh her.

She has no heart, but yet her face
So many hues of youth revealing,
With so much liveliness and grace,
That on my soul 't is ever stealing.

She has no heart, she cannot love,
But she can kindle love in mine; —
Strange, that the softness of a dove
Round such a thing of air can twine.

She has no heart, — her eye, though bright,

Hard by the Wildbrooks I met Mary
When berries smelled sweet and hot—
Mary, I fancy, was seven years old,
And I am never mind what.

‘What are you getting?’ I asked Mary
‘Blackberries. What are you?’
‘Toadflax,’ I answered Mary, ‘and mushrooms.’
‘How many mushrooms?’ ‘Two.’

‘Going to have blackberries stewed for dinner,
‘Or blackberry jam?’ said I.
‘Not goin’ to have neither, said Mary;
‘Goin' to have blackberry pie.’

‘Aren't you lucky!’ I said to Mary.
‘And what sort of name have you got?’

In honour seated, though you are on by ,
O You pursue the same not egerly ;
Hy though you are, your thoughts are humble still,
Nor can your greatnes you pride with ere fill.

Ever more Hy , the more your lowlines,
Greatly unto your honour, you expresse,
Egerly seeking Noblenes to shew,
Rather then greatnes, to the peoples view.
Titles you like not , truth you do affect:
On Hy, not eager , shews a heart select,
Not built for lesse then a great Architect.

Dove of my heart! I've built a nest
For thee, and for thy young ones too,
Where they may sweetly sleep, caressed
Beneath thy warm and downy breast,
As infants in their cradles do.

I've bent around a limber vine,
To form for thee a cool recess;
I'll scatter roses there, and twine
Above an arch of eglantine,
That all within may charm and bless.

And when the frequent falling showers
Make green the tender turf in May,
I'll go and pluck the young-eyed flowers,
Just opening in the lilac bowers,

Let us love while life is young,
And the vital stream is glowing;
When the heart is newly strung,
And the tide of health is flowing.

Let us pluck the Paphian rose,
When its bud is first unfolding;
Ere its withered petals close,
In the misty darkness moulding.

Pluck it, when the morning dew
Twinkles on the new-blown flower,
And the vernal sky of blue
Opens through the melting shower.

Pluck it, when the air is sweet,
And the winds no more are chilling;
When the loving swallows meet,

I heard a thrush sing in the flowering may,
All in the morning cool,
Whilst Joan and Jack ran to the river to play
And found a silvery salmon in a pool.

Now all these five fair things, I wished them joy —
Kindred and close to me:
" For I have been, ere now, a girl and a boy,
A bush, a bird, and a dumb fish in the sea."

Thou hast gone from thy lover,
Thou lord of the sea!
The illusion is over,
That bound me to thee;
I cannot regret thee,
Though dearest thou wert,
Nor can I forget thee,
Thou lord of my heart!

I loved thee too deeply
To hate thee and live;
I am blind to the brightest
My country can give;
But I cannot behold thee
In plunder and gore,
And thy M INNA can fold thee
In fondness no more.

Far over the billow
Thy black vessel rides;
The wave is thy pillow,