Pale Heinrich he came sauntering by,
Fair Hedwig leaned from her garret.
" God keep me safe! " she said with a sigh,
" Yon lad looks pale as a spirit! "

The lad his languishing eyes from below
Uplifted to Hedwig's garret.
They filled fair Hedwig's with lovers' woe,
She too grew pale as a spirit.

Fair Hedwig, hurt with love's secret harms,
Looked daily down from her garret.
But soon she lay nightly in Heinrich's arms,
When wanders each churchyard spirit.

Over the wintry threshold
— Who comes with joy today,
So frail, yet so enduring,
— To triumph o'er dismay?

Ah, quick her tears are springing,
— And quickly they are dried,
For sorrow walks before her,
— But gladness walks beside.

She comes with gusts of laughter, —
— The music as of rills;
With tenderness and sweetness,
— The wisdom of the hills.

Her hands are strong to comfort,
— Her heart is quick to heed;
She knows the signs of sadness,
— She knows the voice of need;

Over the winter glaciers
I see the summer glow,
And through the wild-piled snowdrift
The warm rosebuds below.

Over the turret, shut in his ironclad tower,
— Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame;
Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour,
— Now was the time for a charge to end the game.

There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim,
— A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign:
There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim
— The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.

The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hung
— Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed;
Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung;

Over the river, on the hill,
Lieth a village white and still;
All around it the forest-trees
Shiver and whisper in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow,
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river, under the hill,
Another village lieth still;
There I see in the cloudy night
Twinkling stars of household light,
Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,
Mists that curl on the river-shore;
And in the roads no grasses grow,

Over the last century,
when it comes to painting birds
there has been Lü Chi of late
and earlier, Pien Ching-chao.
These two masters worked at likeness,
they did not work at feeling:
licking their brushes, focusing their eyes,
distinguishing each feather.
Now Lin Liang writes his birds,
he only uses ink:
unroll the silk, and half the surface
is windswept by dark clouds!
Waterfowl and land birds—
each done marvelously;
hang them up and the entire room
takes on a vibrancy.

Over the lake, the wind and snow of a New Year's sky;
in my short straw cape and battered hat I've come through another year.
A country monk, ignorant of what goes on in the world,
beside the stove, roasting potatoes, I stretch my legs and doze.

Over the fields where the cornflowers grow,
Over the fields where the poppies blow,
Over the stile there's a way we know —
Down to a rustling wood!

Over the fields where the daisies grow,
Over the bank where the willows blow,
Over the bridge there's a way we know —
Down to a rippling brook!

Over the hills where the rainbows go,
Where golden gorse and brambles grow,
Over the hills there's a way we know —
Down to a rolling sea!

Over the briny wave I go,
In spite of the weather, in spite of the snow:
What cares the hardy Eskimo?
In my little skiff, with paddle and lance,
I glide where the foaming billows dance.

Round me the sea-birds slip and soar;
Like me, they love the ocean's roar.
Sometimes a floating iceberg gleams
Above me with its melting streams;
Sometimes a rushing wave will fall
Down on my skiff and cover it all.

But what care I for a wave's attack?
With my paddle I right my little kayak,
And then its weight I speedily trim,

Over his millions Death has lawful power,
But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy, to youth restored,
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge
Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach
Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all
Precious on earth to thee—a child, a wife!
Proud as thou wert of her, America
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high
Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.
She would not leave behind her those she loved;
Such solitary safety might become