Les pigeons de la Bourse

Pigeons, who erst to Love's own car
 Were harnessed by the Muse,
Say, whither now ye speed your way?
Alas! to Brussels ye convey
 The money-market news
Thus noble rips and upstart fools,
 In all things bent on trade,
Have Venus' gentle messengers,
Into stock-brokers made

What! then, on poesy and love
 Mankind in vain were nursed;
And now-a-days for golden pelf,
That withers, ay, even Beauty's self,
 With fevered frenzy thirst!
To punish us, O faithful birds,
 Our greedy vultures fly!

The Glacier-nymph, with love so soft,
For the young hunter burned,
And from her icy palace oft
Fond looks upon him turned.
But rough the chamois-hunter's heart
As is the world he walks;
Her winnings — warnings — could not start
The hero of the rocks.

Ofttimes her blooming head she 'ld bow,
A tender Alpine rose,
Then as a zephyr fan his brow,
And lull him to repose;
Oft as a misty ghost she 'ld frown
From Schreckborn-peaks on him,
Through snow-fields oft come roaring down
With fury wild and grim.

Love took me softly by the hand,
Love led me all the country o'er,
And show'd me beauty in the land,
That I had never dreamt before,
Never before, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

There was a glory in the morn,
There was a calmness in the night,
A mildness by the south wind borne,
That I had never felt aright,
Never aright, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

But now it cannot pass away,
I see it wheresoe'er I go,
And in my heart by night and day,
Its gladness waveth to and fro,
By night and day, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

I love to go among my dear comrades the people,
Loafing in streets with my spirit alert and approving,
Not afraid to admit the bad with the good or losing faith when evil brags and blasphemes,
Giving my whole self for the whole self of the crowd,
Withholding nothing from the free interchange of the hours,
Liberal with life as the crowd is liberal with life,
In the sacred stream without question of precedence commingling.
You, dear comrades — you, the people: the common gang:
You draw me out — you go to my roots and get your pay:

We were just brothers — that was all:
Just two men who loved each other and never gave an account of our love,
Just workers in the world whose work was the sorrow and the joy of each other in days of failure and days of success.
I used to ask my brother why he loved me and he said he did not know,
And then he would ask me why I loved him and I too said I did not know:
And so we went about with each other happy in our sweet secret,
Went about with each other not being too curious regarding the mystery of our dear partnership.

I take love at its word:
When things seem to be going wrong I take love at its word:
When the sun is eclipsed I take the sun at its word,
When my dreams fail to come true I take my dreams at their word,
When I lie languishing in prison I take freedom at its word,
When evil seems to triumph I take good at its word:
In whatever shadow of sorrow I take joy at its word,
In whatever failure I take success at its word —
When the heart stops beating I take the heart at its word,
When death prevails over life I take life at its word

When you defer to love in a book,
When you feel that there must be something wrong with love,
When you look around you wondering if those who see you may not impeach love,
When you try love by some measure not a measure of love,
When the opinion of the world takes the place of the opinion of love,
When to love is thought dangerous and to not love is thought safe,
When you wonder if the legislature may not set the bounds of love,
When you defer to love in a book about love and doubt of love in a life full of love,

The edition of " Der Kleine Kempis, " which Peter Leibert issued in 1795, bore the following title: " Derkleine Kempis oder kurze Sprüche und Gebätlein, Aus dem meistens unbekannten Werklein des Thomae a Kempis, Germantaun, 1795. " " The Little Kempis, or Short Sayings and Brief Prayers from the, for the most part unknown, minor work of Thomas a Kempis. " This edition unlike preceding ones contains a number of short poems by different authors at the end of the book. Of these poems, two are by Alexander Mack. Possibly more of them are from his pen but if so they cannot be identified.

I think my love does not know,
I think my love is satisfied not to know —
I think my love only loves — loves, loves and loves again: I think my love does not know.

My love used to be eternally asking questions that could not be answered,
Now I think my love asks no questions and would be sorry if any questions were answered
My love was once eager for the return of love, eager for the full return of love,
Now my love does not care, now my love will make no claims.
My love once put itself into scales and weighed itself and still called itself love,

If I contained enough love,
If I provided in my simple love for all trespasses and all failures,
If I had size enough to see that no man however small is too little to be big,
If I acknowledged the griefs and still prevailed everywhere with my joys,
If I came along after the strongest had given up and revived you with my unequivocal strength,
Might I not then put a new face on the earth and give new meanings to the shining suns?
Might I not then plow into every soil with my gladness and prepare it for adequate harvests?