English

Upon the meadow land rests now the noon.
No wing, track, shadow in the blue and green.
Smoke whitens in the sun, grows thin, and soon
no more is seen.

I have a whirlpool chiming in my ear;
perhaps the distant shepherd bells; and hark!
amidst the blue suspended, I can hear
carol of lark.

O wind of Provence, subtle wind that blows
Through coverts of the impenetrable rose,
O musical soft wind, come near to me,
Come down into these hollows by the sea,
O wind of Provence, heavy with the rose!

How once along the blue sea's battlements
Thy amorous rose-trees poured their spicy scents!
The heavy perfume streamed down granite walls,
Where now the prickly cactus gibes and crawls
Down towards cold waves from grim rock-battlements.

Of all the attar, sharp and resinous,

A BALLAD,

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF SARATOGA .

When many hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away
Sadd'ning to Mora.
Loose flowed her coal-black hair,
Quick heaved her bosom bare,
As thus to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow:

Loud howls the stormy west,
Cold, cold is winter's blast:—
Haste then, O Donald, haste!
Haste to thy Flora!

The flowers of the night are unfolding
at the hour when I think of my dear ones.
In and out among the viburnums
flit the butterflies of the night.

Long since now, the outcries ceased sounding:
alone there one house still is whispering.
Nests are slumbering under the winglets,
eyes are slumbering under their lids.

From wide open calyx is breathing
the odor of strawberries crimson.
Brightly burns a light in the room there.
Grass is growing over the ditch.

A bee, the late comer, is buzzing

I sat me down on the bench of weaving,
as long ago ... How many years past?
As long ago, she made place for me there
on the bench of weaving.

And not the sound of a word resounding;
only a smile with compassion filled.
The white hand leaves unguided the shuttle.

I weep, and say to her: However could I,
O my sweet life, be parted from thee?
She weeps, and answers, with silent gesture:
However couldst thou?

And with a sigh she draws to herself then
the enclosing frame of the silent comb.

Far out to east one streak of golden light
Shows where the lines of sea and heaven unite, —
White heaven shot through with film of flying cloud,
Gray sea the wind just flutters and makes bright,
And wakes to music neither low nor loud.

Two horns jut out, and join, and rim the bay,
Save where a snow-white strip of shingle may
Break through the bar, where, black can be,
Their steep and hollow rocks resound all day
The jarred susurrus of the tumbling sea.

Here on a sunny shelf, while hot the air

Cool, and palm-shaded from the torrid heat,
The young brown tenor puts his singing by,
And sets the twin pipe to his lips to try
Some air of bulrush-glooms where lovers meet;
O swart musician, time and fame are fleet,
Brief all delight, and youth's feet fain to fly!
Pipe on in peace! To-morrow must we die?
What matter, if our life to-day be sweet!
Soon, soon, the silver paper-reeds that sigh
Along the Sacred River will repeat
The echo of the dark-stoled bearers feet,
Who carry you, with wailing, where must lie

TO H AMO T HORNYCROFT

Far in the soft warm west
There lies an orchard-nest,
Where every spring the black-caps come
And build themselves a downy home.

The apple-boughs entwine,
And make a network fine
Through which the morning vapours pass
That rise from off the dewy grass.

And when the spring-warmth shoots
Along the apple roots,

When age comes by and lays his frosty hands
So lightly on mine eyes, that, scarce aware
Of what an endless weight of gloom they bear,
I pause, unstirred, and wait for his commands;
When time has bound these limbs of mine with bands,
And hushed mine cars, and silvered all my hair,
May sorrow come not, nor a vain despair
Trouble my soul that meekly girded stands.

As silent rivers into silent lakes,
Through hush of reeds that not a murmur breaks,
Wind, mindful of the poppies whence they came,

Would this sunshine be completer,
Or these violets smell sweeter,
Or the birds sing more in metre,
If it all were years ago,
When the melted mountain-snow
Heard in Enna all the woe
Of the poor forlorn Demeter?

Would a stronger life pulse o'er us
If a panther-chariot bore us,
If we saw, enthroned before us,
Ride the leopard-footed god,
With a fir-cone tip the rod,
Whirl the thyrsus round, and nod
To a drunken Maenad-chorus?

Bloomed there richer, redder roses