I will read ashes for you, if you ask me.
I will look on the fire and tell you from the gray lashes
And out of the red and black tongues and stripes,
I will tell how fire comes
And how fire runs far as the sea.

Fire Fjæle er vor Pragt,
Naar vi bli'er i Graven lagt!

Oh! May sits crowned with hawthorn-flower,
And is Love's month, they say;
And Love's the fruit that is ripened best
By ladies' eyes in May.

Tavse Graner, sorte Nætter,
Modgang, som med Mørke mætter
alle Dage,

— hvide Birke, lyse Vande,
og fra fuglefyldte Strande
Sang for Klage!

847

Finite—to fail, but infinite to Venture—
For the one ship that struts the shore
Many's the gallant—overwhelmed Creature
Nodding in Navies nevermore—

We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting

I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm'd both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

Quiet like a dream
fingers sliding down my back
a soft breath exhales


(Previously published in Poems Md, Apr 2008)

It is folly now to aim
Or to seek for distant fame,
But rest content if we can claim
Something of a local name
Oh the pleasant banks of Thame,
Because in simple strains we sung
The glories of this country young.

A sleepless night
Suffering
Luckless inspiration
Incomprehensible song
Solitude
Under the banners of melancholy