English

Already the dandelions
Are changed into vanishing ghosts;
Already the tall ripe grasses
Are standing in serried hosts,

Bowing with stately gesture
Whenever the warm winds blow,
Like the spear-heads of an army
Charging against the foe.

Already the nestling sparrows
Are clothed in a mist of gray,
And under the breast of the swallow
The warm eggs stir to-day.

Already the cricket is busy
With hints of soberer days,
And the goldenrod lights slowly
Its torch for the autumn blaze.

There is no day so dark
But through the murk some ray of hope may steal.
Some blessed touch from Heaven that we might feel,
If we but chose to mark.

We shut the portals fast,
And turn the key and let no sunshine in;
Yet to the worst despair that comes through sin
God's light shall reach at last.

We slight our daily joy,
Make much of our vexations, thickly set
Our path with thorns of discontent, and fret
At our fine gold's alloy,

Till bounteous Heaven might frown

He speaks, touching the chords.

Lanterns of silk down the lagoons are vanished—
Brilliance, uproar, and sweep of masquerade;
Their eddies swell—the firefly world is banish'd;
All your canal is shade.

In the outer flood, and plunging at his tether,
One sullen hulk complains against the quays;
Rusty, and timbered ill for such fine weather,
He thinks on the high seas.

Magnolia-bloom is here my only candle,
White petals wash, and break, along the wall;
The clumsy lute, the lute with the scorched handle

Draw wide the curtain, let the day be plain.
All, all is over! All the care, the pain,
The fearful watching, while one hope was left:
Death has accomplished quite his cruel theft.

How still, composed! In how profound a peace
He's wrapped at last! Bid every tear to cease
Now, in this awful silence. Life is gone!
Here's left but mem'ry, and the tomb's gray stone.

Farewell, dear Brother! On the worlds must roll,
Though fate ordain, that soul be torn from soul.
Our paths are sundered: who may dare foretell,

This poor flower of the rose;
All its pride, its fashion, spent;
Shrivelled up; bereft of scent;
Once such sweetness could unclose!

This sad blossom, that hath lain,
For an hour or so of grace,
'Twixt her bosom and her face!
Dare we treat it with disdain?

Dainty was its shell-like hue,
As her shell-like ears, I vow.
Dainty texture, tincture, now
Vainly for your grace we sue!

Think of all, that Nature wrought,
Studious of this pretty flower;
Prodigal of sun and shower;

House upon the Earth, be sad,
Lacking me thou might'st have had!…
Many aeons did I wait
For admission to the Gate
Of the Living. But to see
Much was not vouchsafed to me,
Dazzled, in my little span.
I, that hoped to be a man.
Like a snowflake incarnated
Seem for three days light created.

I saw two Eyes, and break of Day
Gold on spires of Nineveh.
But, ere I one comrade made,
Or with a fellow Beastling played—
Even while voices I forget
Called from cloud and minaret

I gave her all 'twas mine to give,
And fondly thought she smiled:
Nor can I even now believe,
Those lips my soul beguiled.
Surely, some answering spirit woke,
And with that dearest accent spoke!

Ah! but 'twas yesterday we met,
My trembling heart aflame:
So many a tedious month had set,
Since last she breathed my name!
Gone were the hours of aching sense!
Here, here, at length, my recompense!

God! she but passed me, passed me! Yea,
With eyes, that met mine eyes;

Hearts, beat no more! Earth's Sleep has come,
All iron stands her wrinkled tree,
The streams that sang are stricken dumb,
The snowflake fades into the sea.
Hearts, throb no more! your time is past;
Thousands of years for this pent field
Ye have done battle. Now at last
The flags may sink, the captains yield.
Sleep, ye great Wars, just and unjust!
Sleep takes the gate and none defends.
Soft on your craters' fire and lust,
Civilisations, Sleep descends.
Time it is, time to cease carouse.

Wouldst thou praise Her as a rose,
Honied and fair!
Beware!
Sweetest flower in garden-close
Just buds, and goes.

Wouldst thou praise Her as a star
In heaven's blue:
And sue
Morning and night? Too far
Such star-lights are.

Let others sing the country's charm:
The whispering trees, the tangled lane,
The perfume-burdened air, the trills
Of lark and nightingale; the wain,
That homeward brings the scented hay,
When evening's peace absorbs the day.

Let others laud those primal cares,
Which fill the country hours with bliss:
The timely rest; clear eyes, that greet
Earth waking 'neath Aurora's kiss;
The easy, sauntering, walk; the toil,
That waits upon the bounteous soil.

Let others paint with fresh delight