'To the will of the people we loyally bow!'
That's the minority shibboleth now.
O noble antagonists, answer me flat
What would you do if you didn't do that?

Because our life is brief
Let us laugh!
Because for joy and grief
We may quaff
Death's nepenthe soon —
Because this is life's boon
Let us laugh.

What needs it, then, we stand so long a-gazing,
And do not our lips mingle,
Since our hearts, so long single,
Have married as if in a dream amazing?
Our lips in such a joy should follow suit,
And on each other feed as on Love's fruit.

Burdock,
Blue aconite,
And thistle and thorn. .of these
Singing I wreathe my pretty wreath
O'death.

Out of the delicate dream of the distance an emerald emerges
Veiled in the violet folds of the air of the sea;
Softly the dream grows awakening -- shimmering white of a city,
Splashes of crimson, the gay bougainvillea, the palms.
High in the infinite blue of its heaven a quiet cloud lingers,
Lost and forgotten of winds that have fallen asleep,
Fallen asleep to the tune of a Portuguese song in a garden.

Madam, they say, has lost her way.
Tell me, has she passed thither?
Let her alone and she'll come home,
And bring her tales all with her.

The foot of my machine
Sails up and down
Upon the blue of this fine lady's gown.
Sail quickly, little boat,
With gifts for me,
Night and the goldy streets and liberty.

Ma Muse fuit les champs abreuvés de carnage,
Et ses pieds innocents ne se poseront pas
Où la cendre des morts gémirait sous ses pas.
Elle pâlit d'entendre et le cri des batailles,
Et les assauts tonnants qui frappent les murailles,
Et le sang qui jaillit sous les pointes d'airain
Souillerait la blancheur de sa robe de lin.

Ma ben veggi'or si come al popol tutto
Favola fui gran tempo: onde sovente
Di me medesmo meco mi vergogno...

Who call her Mother and who calls her Wife
Look on her grave and see not Death but Life.