English

In their forest camp at night,
A weary with their toil, the hunters slept,
And winds that thro' the piny branches crept
Seemed to whisper in their sweep:
“Sleep, drowsy dreamers, sleep;
Your watch-fires fright away the beasts of chase,
All harmless round your midnight camp they pace;
The breezes whisper and the running streams,
All, all is well; then peaceful be your dreams.”
In the soldiers' camp at night
The outlying pickets make their watchful round;
The sentry's rifle glitters in starlight;

After her bath, yet early in the day,
She donned a ketonet or tunica;
With gems enclasped it, close as a caress,
And smoothed its folds out o'er her loveliness
In fondly fashioned outlines. It was made
Of Persian satin, opaline and white,
Like moving mists around the moon arrayed,
Thro' which she shone, a lovelier light in light
Almost immortal: on a low divan
A fleecy texture tinted Tyrian,
Alone reclining, on each pliant knee
Her white feet poised by turns to sandalled be.
The sandal buckles were with gems aflame,

The red stove warms the room where a beautiful woman sleeps,
Beyond the curtains flying snow increases the coldness
In the small garden, they are playing mouth organs and singing,
The fragrant breeze gathers robes of silk and gauze
Wine is poured, the golden cups are full;
Amidst orchid musk, the feast is offered again
The young gentleman is as drunk as mud,
On the Avenue of Heaven his horse is heard neighing.

The very frequented
City of Naniwa
Is so near the sea
That one can see the boats ridden in by the fisher-women.

When the song is done,
And his heart is ashes,
Never praise the singer
Whom you, silent, heard.
What to him the sound?
What your eyes' fond flashes?
When the singing's over
Say no word!

Ye who darkling stood,
Think, your noon of praises,
Can it glimmer down
To his deepset bower?
Never round him shone
Once your garden mazes;
Now his wandering's over,
Bring no flower!

Old love would seem as though not love today:
Spell-bound by thee, my laughter dies away.
The very wax sheds sympathetic tears
And gutters sadly down till dawn appears.

Though but a dime, a simple dime,
I run a bright career,
And have a voice whose silvery chime,
Like music, wins the ear.

Where'er I go, I'm still received
With ready, grasping hand:
The rich, the poor, and the bereaved
My mission understand.

Yet ere I can my mission prove,
Though never seeking rest,
The miser, with a miser's love,
Oft locks me in his chest.

Imprisoned there I'm doomed to wait,
Still sighing to be free,
Until the tyrant yields to fate,
And heirs obtain the key.

What once to me was fierce and sweet
Is bitter now: the road my feet
Took once in such gay hardihood
My spirit cannot compass it.

And the old sin I huggled once
Is now grown easy to renounce,
So to the source of power and peace
Backward my erring spirit runs.

Now to the hills whence help may come,
Where wild bees shape their honeycomb,
To a little bed of watercress
I would go back … I would go home.

Lips you were not anhungered for,
And those that won your praises,
A century hence will blossom out
In careless purple daisies.

Eyes that smiled lightly into yours,
And eyes that wept for you—
Ah, soon, not Love himself might know
The brown eyes from the blue.

For even he will come to dust,
And even longing passes,
That crumbling flesh may feed the growth
Of the hungry-rooted grasses.

Tho' in the festive circle, gay,
You see me move in frolic measure;
Mark on my cheek, in purple play,
The bloom of youth and smile of pleasure;

Ah! think not I am free from care.
But think how hard it is to cover
With smiles the anguish of despair,
And pity an unhappy lover.