English

Who hath not heard in dusky summer dawns,
Ere winds Aurora's horn, the dreamy spell
Just rippled by some drowsy sentinel.
Who from his leafy outpost on the lawns
Chimes sleepily his call that all is well?
A moment — pipes another silvery note:
Aurora's crystal wheels flash up the sky;
The sentries cry the Dawn and joyously
Glad Welcome peals from every dewy throat,
And every leafy bough chimes melody.

So, in the gloom and silence of the night,
My heart in slumber steeped, unheeding lay,

Show mee not lockes of gold,
Nor blushing roses of that virgine face,
Nor of thy well-made legge and foot the grace;
Let me no more behold
Soule-charming smyles, nor lightnings of thyne eye,
For they, deare life, but serue to make me dye.
Yes, show them all, and more; vnpine the brest,
Let me see liuing snow
Where strawberries doe grow;
Show that delicious feild
Which lillies still doth yeeld,
Of Venus' babe the nest:
Smyle, blush, sigh, chide, vse thousand other charmes;

( To my Collie )

Darkness hangs many veils
Between waking and sleeping,
Some most beautiful, others terrible;
One by one they unfurl,
Drifting downward
In delicate folds, at first elusively diapered,
Burning later to clearness
Of moving forms
Diverse and myriad.
None can tell what manner of veil fair or horrible
Darkness will choose as the last
To close him in from waking.

Most of all do I dread the curtain of wavy crimson
Broidered with terrible jewels,

When first I looked upon your face
It seemed to me it was not new;
It seemed from some far-distant place
I but remembered you:
For some sweet subtle feeling told
That we two once had loved of old.

The clear-cut curve of lip and chin,
The low fond voice, the gentle way;
By these I knew that we had been
Fond lovers in our day:
It seemed I heard you singing still
To me by some Thessalian rill!

Perhaps I was a shepherd lad
And you a shepherd maid;
And O! what kisses sweet we had

If I should die, and some strong Voice should say,
Unto my soul lost in the vast black deep,
" Where wouldst thou take, O Soul, thy future way,
Wouldst still live on in pain, or fall asleep? "
It seems that I would answer: Let me creep
Into the roots of some rose she loves well;
Grow upward with the sap of June and steep
The petals with this love I cannot tell;
Breathe out these dreams in perfume that could speak
My longings for her, for which words are weak!
Thus grow one swift, soft summer day, then feel

There was a Voice —
A Voice awful in the quiet!
As a deluge from the heavens it fell,
As a breath from the earth it arose —
A wild, compelling music;
Like the swift fingers of the Wind upon the harp-strings of the Rain;
Blind, groping, toiling roots, singing of predestined blossoms:
Dying flowers chanting the glory of seed;
A sad, wise rune of growing,
Mysterious as birth,
Mystic as death;
Thin treble threads spun silverly out of Immensity;
Murmurous thunders, sullen with menace!

The shepherdess within a sunny grove,
In the black wood, a shepherd — watch'd their sheep,
" O come to me, sweet love!
Come hither! thou shalt keep
Joy in my bosom treasur'd deep. "

Sigh, stollen from her sweet brest,
What doth that marble hart,
Smartes it indeed, and feels not others smart,
Grieues it, yet thinkes that others grieued jeast?
Loue or despight, which forc't thee thence to part?
Sweet harbinger, say from what vncouth guest.
Sure thou from loue must come,
Who sigh'd to see there drest his marble tombe

Amintas, now at last
Thou art reuenged of all my rigour past;
The scorning of thee, softnesse of thy hart,
Thy longings, causefull teares,
Doe double griefe each day to mee impart.
I am not what I was,
And in my miseries I thyne doe glasse;
Ah! now in perfect yeares,
E'r reason could my comming harmes descrie,
Made loue's fond taper flie.
I burne mee thinkes in sweet and fragrant flame.
Aske mee noe more: tongue hide thy mistres' shame.

May none be so acquainted with the tyranny of fate,
Many are the griefs that I bear now in my heart.
They that formerly lay prostrate at my feet
Now on my head do they plant their footsteps.
They who had ever expectation from my kindness
Rain now upon me their bounties and obligations.
They who have recovered of the wounds of which I healed them,
Laughing are they now that I am in need of cure.
To what purport shall I ply them? Who cares for their merit?
Burn them in the fire, those black pens of mine.