BLYTHE bell, that calls to bridal halls,
Tolls deep a darker day;
The very shower that feeds the flower
Weeps also its decay.

It is very nice to think
The world is full of meat and drink,
With little children saying grace
In every Christian kind of place.

Sur sa nouvelle d' ' Arria Marcella '

Le creux d'un sein charmant que la cendre moula
Fut la coupe où tu bus cette ivresse éloquente,
Qui, sous l'étroit portique aux volutes d'acanthe,
Fit surgir dans la pourpre Arria Marcella.

Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet,
In short, my deary, kiss me! and be quiet.

There's a gleam of green in an old bottle,
There's a stir of red in the quiet stove,
There's a feeling of snow in the dusk outside --
What about a cup of wine inside?

See, where on high the moving masses, piled
By the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild,
Present strange shapes to view;
Oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds,
As though some air-born giant 'mid the clouds
Sudden his falchion drew.

A stone I died and rose again a plant;
A plant I died and rose an animal;
I died an animal and was born a man.
Why should I fear? What have I lost by death?

I awake light-hearted this morning of spring,
Everywhere round me the singing of birds
But now I remember the night, the storm,
And I wonder how many blossoms were broken.

Behind a ribbon of evening mist, a chill sky distills,
and a melody of far waterfalls like ten silk strings
comes to my pillow to tug my feelings,
keeping me awake in sorrow past midnight.

Across the Glory of the glowing skies,
A veil is drawn of shadowed mists that rise
From lavishness from God's late gift. the rain.

So, after farewell said, fond memories
Of words and looks, now over, come again
Across the glowing heart, a veil of pain.