Classic Poem

Still when young April's rosy light doth shine
Into my room, thy sudden smile can move,
O fair-haired Mary, this sad heart of mine:

This heart, to which long years of struggle prove
How sweet were rest with thee whom it forgot,
O my first love, sweet dawn of my first love!

Where art thou? Not forlorn thou sighest, not
Unwed: thy native village hath for sure
In thee a joyous bride and mother got;

Too rich in promise to a husband's pure
Embrace was that young form, that heaving breast,
Which its confining veil could scarce endure.

Surely strong sons were to thy bosom pressed,
Who now leap on their steeds of mettle keen,
With loving glances unto thee addressed.

How lovely wast thou, maiden, as between
The swell of the long furrows, with a wreath
Of wild flowers in thy hand, myself have seen

Thee, tall and smiling, come, the while beneath
Thy vivid brows the large blue eyes profound
Would unto me one bright, shy glance bequeath.

For like the cornflower 'twixt the wheatstalks found
Blooming serene, 'neath tangled golden hair
Shone thy blue eyes: before thee and around

Flamed the vast summer: in the sunlit air
The green pomegranate branches swayed, where gleamed
The red fruit 'mid the foliage here and there.

The gorgeous peacock at thy passing seemed
To greet its queen, spreading, all azure-eyed,
Its tail, and gazing at thee harshly screamed.

How chill my life seems now when set beside
Those happy days, how dark, how wearisome!
'Twere better, dear, to have made thee my bride!

Better thro' pathless bush go tracking some
Driv'n buffalo, which in the copse will wait
And gaze, then rush on when pursuers come.

Than after petty, paltry rhymes to sweat!
Better by work to have forgot, than sought
To solve, vast riddles that no man solved yet!

Now cold, remorseless, doth the worm of thought
Gnaw through my brains, whence in my bitter pain
I write and speak sad words with misery fraught.

With heart and muscles wasted through the strain
Of mind self-tortured, bones all festering
From civil ruin, I madly writhe in vain.

Oh, the long lines of poplars whispering
Unto the breeze! Oh, in the cool shade nigh
The little chapel, on fête-days the ring

Of rustic seats; where brown the ploughlands lie
Below, and green the hills, yon sea with white
Sails dotted, and the old graveyard close by!

Oh, sweet the talk with comrades in the bright,
Still noontide, sweet the cosy gathering late
Around the hearth upon a winter's night!

Oh, glorious, far more glorious, to relate
To eager youngsters tales of derring-do,
The hard-fought chase, the dangers that await

The huntsman, and with finger trace anew
The slanting wounds on the prone wild-boar seen,
Than with a pack of lying rhymes pursue

The cowards of Italy and Trissottin.