Classic Poem

I have seen the earth flooded with crimson
from the flower of the clover in bloom,
I have seen the full hedges of thorn-bush
clothe in bloom the soft sides of the ditch;
and, little by little, the poplars
flaunt forth woven fringes of green
along by the road that is lost
afar.

What is, pray, that road without ending,
which at daybreak so quivers with wings?
And whom are the warblers now calling
with their long-drawn, monotonous wail?
From out the brown mulberry branches
who invites with his silvery song?
Who unwinds and lets fall golden balls
in the sky?

I hear the croak, croak of the frogs;
from ditches filled full by the rain,
in the humid serenity.
And they sound, in the light serene,
the dusky refrain of a train
faring forth. . . .

A rustic reed sounding, a ripple,
faintly sweet, without echo, alone.
Mid meadows of clover-bloom crimson,
mid the meadows of clover of gold,
I wander; I roam in a lowland
where churches dawn white, mid the green;
I roam in the beautiful land
far away.

The breezes are bringing me voices
that sound with a weary refrain.
From hedges, long shadows of crosses
stretch their arms out along the white way.
Afloat in the roseate heaven,
there comes the low humming of bells,
that say: He is here! He will stay!
He will rest!

I hear, in the twilight serene,
the dusky refrain of a train,
that goes not afar, that moves,
and is seeking, and seeking still,
what never has been, and is ever