English

How long can this floating life last?
A formless creature chasing empty glory.
Better to brew a lot of wine,
To tip your cup often in a bamboo grove

The Seventh Month—
the sixth day, too, is different
from the usual night

Sky-lover!
Embracer of the hiving stars!
The swarms of golden bees!
I feel the strength of thine ancient arms
And the power of thy going forth through endless night.

In the gross darkness thou hast spun a widening spiral of light,
Moons, stars and glowing suns:
But through these thou goest forth into the unadventured abysses,
Chaos unconquered,
We going with thee.

From a beautiful lake on the mountain
Two rivulets came down,
Prattling awhile to the violets,
Mid shadows green and brown.

Over beds of golden lustre,
Around by rock and tree,
They sang the same tune with their silvery tongues,
And clapped their hands in glee.

Over rocks with mosses mantled,
They eddied and whirled, like a waltzing pair,
Till, hand in hand, with laughter and leap
They mingled their misty hair.

Over the self-same ledges,
Singing the self-same tune,

It is the season when the light of dreams
Around the year in golden glory lies;—
The heavens are full of floating mysteries,
And down the lake the veilèd splendour beams!
Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams,
Mantled with mysteries of their own romance,
While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance
The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams,
Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake
Here the frail maples and the faithful firs
By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake

In a temple built by God,
The bright and boundless heaven,—
Its pavement the green sod,
With the woods to wave around,
In a harmony of sound,
To his favorites only given,—
Only given to those ears
Who can catch the chiming spheres,—
Only given to those hearts
Who can feel him in the flowers,
Who with high and holy arts
Know to steal away the hours
From the blank of vulgar men,—
We are spirits only then,
And with voices pure and free
Only then can worship thee,—
Then can only at thy throne,

Father, let thy blessing
Touch us and remain,
Guiding all our actions
Till we meet again.

Father, keep us loving,
Brave and true and free,
Kind to every creature,—
All belong to thee.

Unto all thy children,
Here and everywhere,
Father, give the comfort
Of thy loving care.

Speed ye, warm hours, along th' appointed path,
Speed, though ye bring but pain, slow pain to me;
I will not much bemoan your heavy wrath,
So ye will make my lady glad and free.
What is't that I must here confined be,
If she may roam the summer's sweets among,
See the full-cupped flower, the laden tree,
Hear from deep groves the thousand-voiced song?
Sometimes in that still chamber will she sit
Trim ranged with books, and cool with dusky blinds,
That keep the moon out, there, as seemed fit,

Oh Poetry, oh rarest spirit of all
That dwell within the compass of the mind,
Forsake not him, whom thou of old didst call:
Still let me seek thy face, and seeking find.
Some years have gone about since I and thou
Became acquainted first: we met in woe;
Sad was my cry for help as it is now;
Sad too thy breathed response of music slow;
But in that sadness was such essence fine,
So keen a sense of Life's mysterious name,
And high conceit of natures more divine,
That breath and sorrow seemed no more the same.

There loomed a great shape lately scarce in sight
Of Scituate cliffs,—a mountain mid the mist;
Perchance an Indiaman, we said; but hist!
Heard you that gun-stroke, out by yonder light?
Then the fog thickened in the gathering night;
No further signal heard (save that dread one
Which brings back terror even as I write)
Of the mysterious wanderer; nor is known
Aught else of her—but that she comes no more.
O unknown mourners! watchers of the sea
By many a lonely fireside on the shore,
One thing is sure: He brought them to the breast