English

Lo! it is day; the land lies warm in light;
The river ripples dreamily along
Thro' golden meadows, listening the song
Of happy birds that, with unweary flight,
Dart o'er a sky immaculately bright:
Thine arm is sinewy, thy heart is strong,
Thy life is affluent and free from wrong,
Why wish to see beyond that mist-clad height?

Because the day will not for ever last,
Nor will our winding way for ever lie
Thro' sunny pasturage—because the sky
May momently with clouds be overcast—

Think not of me amid the crowd
Where with her finery and her bells
The fashion of the world is loud,
And woman shows the charms she sells.

I would not have my image rise
Among those phantoms of the street,
That pirouette like a pack of flies
And idly as they came retreat.

Give them a glance and let them pass,
Forgot as they were born to be,
But in their multitudinous mass,
O lady! never mingle me.

Rather in life's lone hour, dear love!
And thy still chamber's inmost place,

Lilies lightly come in spring
Where they find best blossoming:
Edwin's grandchild! rosy-pale,
When these lilies of the vale
Warm their hearts in thy soft hand,
Thou shalt see their buds expand
As one after April snows
Sees blue violets' eyes unclose.

Mine be only winter flowers,
Nursed through many sunless hours
In her chamber, late who lay
Dying many a bitter day,
Counting every stroke of bell
All night long, till morning fell
On her spirit — like a cloud;
Some of these lay on her shroud.

Where climbs thy steep, fair Olivet,
There is a spot most dear to me:
The spot with tears of sorrow wet,
When Jesus knelt in agony.

I love in thought to linger there,
To tread the hallowed ground alone,
Where, on the silent midnight air,
Rose heavenward, Lord, thy plaintive moan.

I fondly seek the olive shade
That veiled thee when thy soul was wrung;
When angels came to bring thee aid,
That oft to thee their harps had strung!

There, on the sacred turf, I kneel,

PAINTED BY WILLIAM WILLARD

Look on this lady! and behold in her
What women could be, and what women were,
In days, gone by, before the excess of books
Had weighed their natures down and marred their looks:
A face that could not frown, and if it smile,
Reveals a soul incapable of guile;
Spirito gentil! believing others clean,
Thinking no scandal, noting nothing mean;
As far away from sourness as from vanity,
Perfect in purity, — not Puritanity.

We sat on the top of the cliff
Overlooking the open sea
Our backs turned to the little town
Each of us had a basket of strawberries
We had just bought them from a dark woman
With quick eyes — berry-finding eyes
They're fresh picked said she from our own garden
The tips of her fingers were stained a bright red!
Heavens what strawberries
Each one was the finest
The perfect berry — the strawberry Absolute
The fruit of our childhood!
The very air came fanning
On strawberry wings
And down below, in the pools

While still the west was glowing, yesternight,
From a small dwelling in a common street,
Amid all common things of sound and sight,
A mighty spirit Olympus-ward did fleet.
In that celestial commonwealth of souls
Who have deserved Olympus, what a crowd
Will come about him! how the list unrolls
Of names like his! with voice no longer loud,
But low and tender, trembling to the tone
Of his melodious greeting, " O my true!
O Charles! dear Edmund! constant Garrison!
Sweet singer by the Charles! when friends were few. "

This road —
no one goes down it

Chrysanthemum scent —
in Nara ancient statues
of the Buddha.

Taking a midday nap
feet planted
on a cool wall.