English

Never knowing
they would
remind me
of him,
he planted
the trees
in those days
of his
old age—
thinking only of blossoms.

In this
world of ours,
what good
does it do
for you
to have
the praise
of men?
For blossoms,
the winds of spring;
for the moon,
floating clouds.

Sea and land are fairer now, nor aught is all the same,
Since a mightier hand than Time's hath woven their votive wreath
Rocks as swords half drawn from out the smooth wave's jewelled sheath,
Fields whose flowers a tongue divine hath numbered name by name,
Shores whereby the midnight or the noon clothed round with flame
Hears the clamour jar and grind which utters from beneath
Cries of hungering waves like beasts fast bound that gnash their teeth,
All of these the sun that lights them lights not like his fame;

Storm, strong with all the bitter heart of hate,
Smote England, now nineteen dark years ago,
As when the tide's full wrath in seaward flow
Smites and bears back the swimmer. Fraud and fate
Were leagued against her: fear was fain to prate
Of honour in dishonour, pride brought low,
And humbleness whence holiness must grow,
And greatness born of shame to be so great.

The winter day that withered hope and pride
Shines now triumphal on the turning tide
That sets once more our trust in freedom free,

Venus, when you string your bow,
Here no longer aim.
I am full of wounds enow:
Seek some other game.

I'd a house by a rock, out aside from the way,
With windowy walls to the sunside of day,
Beside a fair hill, with a well wooded ridge,
And under its side a clear stream and a bridge.
There whistles the blackbird when spring blossoms white,
And white flits the owl in the dusk of the night.
And there in the day-heat the wind, freshly cool,
Floats up from the stream with its wide waving pool,
And choosing and using the hours for the best,
We cheery, though weary, at night sat at rest.

But if it were fear'd that the house's high roof

Oh ! I be shepherd o' the farm,
Wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep-dog's bark,
An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm,
Here I do rove below the lark.

An' I do bide all day among
The bleäten sheep, an' pitch their vwold;
An' when the evenèn sheädes be long,
Do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold.

An' I do zee the friskèn lam's,
Wi' swingèn taïls an' woolly lags,
A-playèn roun' their veedèn dams,
An' pullèn o' their milky bags.

An' I bezide a hawthorn tree,
Do' zit upon the zunny down,

O V all the cows, among the rest
Wer woone that Nanny lik'd the best;
An' after milkèn us'd to stan'
A-veedèn o' her, vrom her han',
Wi' grass or haÿ; an' she know'd Ann,
An' in the evenèn she did come
The vu'st, a-beätèn up roun' hwome
Vor Ann to come an' milk her.

Her back wer hollor as a bow,
Her lags wer short, her body low;
Her head wer small, her horns turn'd in
Avore her feäce so sharp's a pin:
Her eyes wer vull, her ears wer thin,
An' she wer red vrom head to tail,

The woaken tree, so hollow now,
To souls ov other times wer sound,
An' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough
Above their heads, a-gather'd round,
But zome light veet
That here did meet
In friendship sweet, vor rest or jaÿ,
Shall be a-miss'd another Maÿ.

My childern here, in plaÿvul pride
Did zit 'ithin his wooden walls,
A-mentèn steätely vo'k inside
O' castle towers an' lofty halls.
But now the vloor
An' mossy door
That woonce they wore would be too small
To teäke em in, so big an' tall.

Ye airs of sunny spring, that softly blow
With whisp'ry breathings o'er the grasses blade;
Ye grass-bespangling flow'rs—too soon to fade—
That now with gemlike brightness round me grow;
Ye saplings small and green-bough'd trees, that throw
Your waving shadows on the sunny glade;
Thou lowland stream, whose winding waters flow
Like molten silver to the hoarse cascade:

Give vice the noisy town, and let the great
Ride mighty o'er the earth with pride and pow'r;
Give avarice his gold: but let me flee