Franske Snørliv — — Dog du veed
nok hvortil jeg sigter.
Boer Du paa det høie Fjeld,"
synger Du som Digter.

Nor stars . . the dark . . and in
The dark the grey
Ghost glimmer of the olive trees
The black straight rows
Of Cypresses.

931

Noon—is the Hinge of Day—
Evening—the Tissue Door—
Morning—the East compelling the sill
Till all the World is ajar—

The silent blue haze in the noonday hills
Is deep with glory, as the very air
Were an alembic.

Non, ton éternité d'inconscience obscure,
D'aveugle impulsion, de mouvement forcé,
Tout l'infini du temps ne vaut pas, ô Nature !
La minute où j'aurai pensé.

Stuff of the moon
Runs on the lapping sand
Out to the longest shadows.
Under the curving willows,
And round the creep of the wave line,
Fluxions of yellow and dusk on the waters
Make a wide dreaming pansy of an old pond in the night.

I'll settle for the 6 horse

No wine for me!-Nay, an it be thy will,
Kiss first the goblet-I will drink my fill:
How may I, when thy lips have touched it, dare
Be sober still, and that sweet draught forswear:
For the cup steers the kiss from thee to me,
And tells me all the bliss it won of thee.

Um anjo dorme aqui: na aurora apenas,
Disse adeus ao brilhar das açucenas
Sem ter da vida alevantado o véu.
- Rosa tocada do cruel granizo -
Cedo finou-se e no infantil sorriso
Passou do berço p'ra brincar no céu!

No sight can be more autumnal
than that of my garden
Tenanted by an autumnal person
weary of the world!