English

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine, — thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
" Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away! "
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.

Ulysses, then, toward the palace moved
Of King Alcinoüs, but immers'd in thought
Stood, first, and paused, ere with his foot he press'd
The brazen threshold; for a light he saw
As of the sun or moon illuming clear
The palace of Phaeacia's mighty King.
Walls plated bright with brass, on either side
Stretch'd from the portal to th' interior house,
With azure cornice crown'd; the doors were gold
Which shut the palace fast; silver the posts
Rear'd on a brazen threshold, and above,
The lintels, silver, architraved with gold.

Just then, forgetful of the strict command
Of Circe to forbear, I cloth'd my limbs
In radiant armour, grasp'd two quiv'ring spears,
And to the deck ascended at the prow,
Expecting earliest notice there, what time
The rock-bred Scylla should annoy my friends.
But I discern'd her not, nor could, although
To weariness of sight the dusky rock
I vigilant explor'd. Thus, many a groan
Heaving, we navigated sad the strait,
For here stood Scylla, while Charybdis there
With hoarse throat deep absorb'd the briny flood.

He spake, to whom I, answ'ring, thus replied:
"O Peleus' son! Achilles! bravest far
Of all Achaia's race! I here arrived
Seeking Tiresias, from his lips to learn,
Perchance, how I might safe regain the coast
Of craggy Ithaca; for tempest-toss'd
Perpetual, I have neither yet approach'd
Achaia's shore, or landed on my own.
But as for thee, Achilles! never man
Hath known felicity like thine, or shall,
Whom living we all honour'd as a God,
And who maintain'st, here resident, supreme
Control among the dead; indulge not then,

He ended, nor the Argicide refus'd,
Messenger of the skies; his sandals fair,
Ambrosial, golden, to his feet he bound,
Which o'er the moist wave, rapid as the wind,
Bear him, and o'er th' illimitable Earth,
Then took his rod, with which, at will, all eyes
He softly shuts, or opens them again.
So arm'd, forth flew the valiant Argicide.
Alighting on Pieria, down he stoop'd
To Ocean, and the billows lightly skimm'd
In form a seamew, such as, in the bays
Tremendous of the barren Deep her food

Fist like the mountain fern half unfurled,
skin like the pomegranate when the blossom has just dropped;
all you do is howl, searching for your mother's breast;
beautiful baby eyes that have not learned to tell their father.

In response to Kikaku's hokku on smartweed/firefly:
With the morning-glories I eat my meal, I'm that kind of man

In coming to Japan, Monk Ganjin of Shodai Temple more than seventy times endured difficulties on his ship, and because the salty winds blew into his eyes he finally became blind. I looked at his holy statue:
With a young leaf may I wipe the dew from your eyes?

In Amatsu there was a narrow road through the paddies, and the wind blowing up from the sea was very cold:
A winter day: frozen on horseback, a shadow

Whiter than the stones on Stone Mountain — the autumn wind