English

The night I returned home
my white bones followed
and lay down in the same room.

The dark room gave out
on the universe
and the wind blew
like a voice from heaven.

Peering down at my white bones,
so finely worn away and
pulverized by the wind amid the darkness,
I wonder who it is whose tears are being shed.
Am I crying?
Or is it my white bones?
Perhaps my beautiful soul?

A steadfast dog howls
in the darkness through the night.

The dog howling in the darkness

White-haired, but wanton still,
she eyed a bright young spark.
Hair dyed black, she panted to the mountaintop, but as she crested the topmost ridge a sudden burst of rain stained her white collar black and turned her black hair white again.
Thus the matron's
hopes were raised and shattered in a trice.

Be sure to invite me
when your wine matures.
I shall invite you
if flowers bloom in my arbor.
We shall discuss, then, how to live
a hundred years without worry.

No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone,
A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell,
A dying echo of rich music gone,
Breathe through those words—those murmurs of farewell:
No more!

To dwell in peace, with home affections bound,
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice,
To feel the spirit of her love around,
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice—
No more!

A dirge-like sound! to greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea,
For ever and the same!
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee;
Those thunders nought can tame.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone
From the rich bowers of earth,
And hush'd is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.

The Dorian flute that sigh'd of yore
Along the wave, is still;
The harp of Judah peals no more
On Zion's awful hill.

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord
That breathed the mystic tone;
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs pour'd

Proudly Sorrow goes,
Telling not her woes
In the ear of him that passeth by.
Cloth of gold she weareth,
Like a Queen appeareth,
Royally.

When, to Joy turning,
And for Love burning,
She shall shed the tears that she hath scorned,
Wilt thou speak again?
Wilt thou ask me then

O'er fallow plains and fertile meads,
—Aurora lifts the torch of day;
The shad'wy brow of Night recedes,
—Cold dew-drops fall from every spray;
Now o'er the thistle's rugged head,
—Thin veils of filmy vapour fly,
On ev'ry violet's perfum'd bed
—The sparkling gems of Nature lie.

The hill's tall brow is crown'd with gold,
—The Milk-maid trills her jocund lay,
The Shepherd-boy impens his fold,
—The Lambs along the meadows play;
The pilf'ring Lark, with speckled breast,
—From the ripe sheaf's rich banquet flies;

Head bowed beneath her black turban, she glances up at her daughter
who eyes in the mirror herself, yellow hair and beautiful face.

This charm of vacant lots!
The helpless fields that lie
Sinister, sterile and blind—
Entreat the eye and rack the mind,
Demand your pity.
With ashes and tins in piles,
Shattered bricks and tiles
And the débris of a city.

Far from our definitions
And our aesthetic laws
Let us pause
With these fields that hold and rack the brain
(What: again?)
With an unexpected charm
And an unexplained repose
On an evening in December
Under a sunset yellow and rose.

Suddenly into the still air burst thudding
And thudding, and cold fear possessed me all,
On the grey slopes there, where winter in sullen brooding
Hung between height and depth of the ugly fall
Of Heaven to earth; and the thudding was illness' own.
But still a hope I kept that were we there going over,
I in the line, I should not fail, but take recover
From others' courage, and not as coward be known.
No flame we saw, the noise and the dread alone
Was battle to us; men were enduring there such