Classic Poem

I

A lamp I am, burning with radiant sweetness!
the lamp, it may be, that, suspended,
looks down from the smoke-covered rafters
on the evening group spinning;

and hearkens to tales and conversing,
from voices
deep hidden in shadowy corners,
just back of the softly wound distaffs,
that gleam in line whitely:

long talking and stories, and greetings
of love, to the ear in confusion:
the assiduous whisperings hidden
by assiduous humming of spindles;
the olden words listened to newly
with rapturous heart-beat, and nearby
the sound of the tranquilly cud-chewing
cattle;

II

the lamp, it may be, that assembles
for supper;
that flowers on the whiteness, surveying
the bountiful cover serenely,
a moon on field snowy.
It smiles on the jovial banquet,
and sometimes
its ray meets a finger there, little
and all the time blackened, from guiding
the pen, as it hastens:

but leaves darkly shaded the mother,
while searching the face of her daughter,
the eldest, who, lost in reflection,
is dazed by my roseate radiance.
Lured into the gold of my flaming,
she sees not that look of yours futile;
she is fleeing, is far now already,
poor mother!

III

Although I may not be the lantern
low swaying
in front of a sweet Mary Virgin,
kept there by the wee contributions
of many homes lowly:

a tribute no less I am collecting,
of the olive,
from all of the village, and greetings
of hills with their rocks, and their river,
its reeds sounding softly.

My ray in the evening illumines,
mid shadow of sorrowful violet,
in the eye which in prayer is despairing,
the one piteous tear all alone there;
and dies in the clear light of dawning
this ray of mine, pallid and trembling,
mid chorus of virgins and blossoms
of May time.

IV

The lamp I am, shaded, revealing
the woman,
more white than the sheet in its whiteness,
who, sleeping beside thee, matureth
thy seed in her bosom;

or that which shines down on a cradle ...
the wee craft,
which, hoisting the lantern of fortune,
sets out on the sea of existence
mid rocking and groaning ...

or that which lights up in the silence
deep homes of the Dead ... with the faces
emaciate of the aged, and shadowy
smiles of the yellow-haired virgins ...
thy mother! ... in dark places, timeless,
for thee, from her sorrowful haven,
she touches her heart, now already
corroded! ...

V

The lamp I am, burning with radiant
sweetness!
in hours that are tardy and lonely,
in shadow most heavy, most grievous,
most good, O my brother!

And whether I hang o'er the maiden
that's thinking,
the mother who prays, o'er the cradle
that weeps, or the table convivial,
the tomb wrapped in silence;

my chaste, ardent flame sends its rays out
afar to the wanderer, who, weary,
is treading on life's pallid roadway.
He stops, when he catches my radiance,
which burns in his spirit benignly:
and then he takes up the dark journey
with singing.