English

With sharp white teeth the mountains tore his shroud
To learn his secret in their brutal way;
They hid his bones behind an ashen cloud—
Stone doors might yield to Christ again some day!
But some of him goes walking on their heights,
I know not if it be his flesh or bones—
His flesh, snow-white, and cold to man's delights,
His bones, like startled wind against loose stones.

He is a pale unhappy thing that lives
Yet has no life. Dead, he knows not death, yet
Mocks at shadows, the imprisoned sun.

Yes , for me, for me he careth
With a brother's tender care;
Yes, with me, with me he shareth
Every burden, every fear.

Yes, o'er me, o'er me he watcheth,
Ceaseless watcheth, night and day:
Yes, even me, even me he snatcheth
From the perils of the way.

Yes, for me he standeth pleading,
At the mercy-seat above;
Ever for me interceding,
Constant in untiring love.

Yes, in me abroad he sheddeth
Joys unearthly,—love and light;
And to cover me he spreadeth
His paternal wing of might.

You love a legend. Here is one:
When Joseph warned in dreams by night
Took Mary and her Blessed Son
And they to Egypt made their flight,

As through the desert wild they went
By angels led and undismayed,
A flower sprang up of sweetest scent
Where'er the Virgin's steps were stayed.

'T is fabled that this flower since then
Blooms only on some feast-day high,
And chiefly when comes round again
The Feast of Christ's Nativity.

Be this sweet legend true or no,
'T is true that Mary went that way,

Yamato's land, that still with pow'r imperial
Our monarchs rule in undivided sway,
Since first the gods came down from realms ethereal
Hath never ceas'd those monarchs to obey.

Wherefore methought that while, in grand succession,
Prince after prince should rule earth's wide domain,
Throughout the myriad age's long procession
From Nara's palace would they choose to reign.

Sweet Nara! still in Mount Mikasa's bowers,
When circling mists proclaimed the pow'r of Spring,
Dark'ning the forest bloomed the cherry-flowers,

Yes, you are weary, and it is most right—
This is a blessed light
Wherein you ask to sleep:
How soft it falls! How delicately creep
The perfumed airs upon your breast!
Sleep on! sleep on! rest! rest!

Ah, it was glorious fun up there,
You little devil-may-care!
Such flowers to kiss, such pebbles to chide,
Such crabbed old carls of roots to deride,
Flouting them with your saucy riot!
Yes, yes! But now be quiet!

For after all the stones were rough,
And you've had fun enough.
See! it is O, so peaceful here!

You go to my head
And you linger like a haunting refrain,
And I find you spinning 'round in my brain
Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne.
You go to my head
Like a sip of sparkling Burgundy brew,
And I find the very mention of you
Like the kicker in a julep or two.
The thrill of the thought
That you might give a thought
To my plea
Casts a spell over me.
Still, I say to myself,
“Get ahold of yourself,
Can't you see
That it never can be.”
You go to my head
With a smile that makes my temp'rature rise,

You sneer at me, and cry forsooth—
Because within my heart I hold
This visage grim, and form uncouth,
Better than beauty, or than gold.

Why prate of things that have no charm
To stay the withering breath of age?
Lo, here within this brawny arm,
I hold what can all griefs assuage.

The subtle mechanism of thought,
That grows to fruitage in the brain,
By this strong hand to shape is wrought,
Until it stands complete and plain.

I know that beauty gladdens life,
That wealth and comfort are allied,

You were dressed in leather pants,
With moccasins upon your feet,
And on your head a round
Coon-skin cap stood, and the tails
Of the cap dropped to your back.
You had a flint-lock rifle in your hands,
And a powder-horn hung from your belt.
Kindness and savageness
Rested on your rough and hairless face,
And the paradox resembled
The wilderness through which you strode.
Something variable, strong,
And irresistible was held
By your hooked nose, eyes, and wide, close lips:
Something like the weather—

Your eyes will not mark the advent of the season
Nor the joy of grasses thronging from the earth
Nor will they notice the burgeoning of the trees
In the stillness of the night
Nor the glow of sap in the heart of the leaf
They will not remark, your eyes, the silence of the seed
As it goes back to its closed-in kingdoms
They will not perceive, your eyes, this death as it returns
Hiding all the freed birds in its basket.
Conceal yourself, then, behind the herbage of words,
Know for a truth that the world

Your heart trembles in the shadows, like a face reflected in troubled water
The old mirage rises from the pit of the night
You sense the sweet sorcery of the past:
A river carries you far away from the banks,
Carries you toward the ancestral landscape.
Listen to those voices singing the sadness of love
And in the mountain, hear that tom-tom panting like the breast of a young black girl

Your soul is this image in the whispering water where your fathers bent their dark faces
Its hidden movements blend you with the waves