When I looked up at my love-birds
That Sunday afternoon,
There was in their tiny tune
A dying fetch like broken words,
When I looked up at my love-birds
That Sunday afternoon.

When he, too, scanned the love-birds
On entering there that day,
'Twas as if he had nought to say
Of his long journey citywards,
When he, too, scanned the love-birds,
On entering there that day.

And billed and billed the love-birds,
As 'twere in fond despair
At the stress of silence where
Had once been tones in tenor thirds,

Law, say the gardeners, is the sun,
Law is the one
All gardeners obey
Tomorrow, yesterday, today.

Law is the wisdom of the old
The impotent grandfathers shrilly scold;
The grandchildren put out a treble tongue,
Law is the senses of the young.

Law, says the priest with a priestly look,
Expounding to an unpriestly people,
Law is the words in my priestly book,
Law is my pulpit and my steeple.

Law, says the judge as he looks down his nose,
Speaking clearly and most severely,
Law is as I've told you before,

— a dream
we dreamed
each
separately
we two
of love
and of
desire —

that fused
in the night —

in the distance
over
the meadows
by day
impossible —
The city
disappeared
when
we arrived —

A dream
a little false
toward which
now
we stand
and stare
transfixed —

All at once
in the east
rising!

All white!
small
as a flower —

(Imaginary translation from the Spanish)

Through what extremes of passion
had you come, Sappho, to the peace
of deathless song?
As from an illness, as after drought
the streams released to flow
filling the fields with freshness
the birds drinking from every twig
and beasts from every hollow —
bellowing, singing of the unrestraint
to colors of a waking world.
So
after love a music streams above it.
For what is love? But music is
Villon beaten and cast off
Shakespeare from wisdom's grotto

You have come between me and the terrifying presence
of the moon, the stars, the sun and the earth
with all its crooked outgrowths. The desolation of life
has been darkened by your shadow, but toward me
your face has been a light, your hands have been
a soft rain, the voice from between your lips
a thing that carries me as the air carries a bird.
I have spread my arms out wide feeling you about me
and looked up and taken a deep breath! Deep,
deep! an April in every finger tip!

She

From your eyes, from among what you say,

Behold this little bane —
The Boon of all alive —
As common as it is unknown
The name of it is Love —

To lack of it is Woe —
To own of it is Wound —
Not elsewhere — if in Paradise
Its Tantamount be found —

Love bitter-sweet — Sappho

1

Keep love and he wings,
with his bow,
up, mocking us,
keep love and he taunts us
and escapes.
Keep love and he sways apart
in another world,
outdistancing us
Keep love and he mocks,
ah, bitter and sweet,
your sweetness is more cruel
than your hurt
Honey and salt,
fire burst from the rocks
to meet fire
spilt from Hesperus.
Fire darted aloft and met fire:
in that moment
love entered us.

He and I sought together,
over the spattered table,
rhymes and flowers,
gifts for a name.

He said, among others,
I will bring
(and the phrase was just and good,
but not as good as mine,)
" the narcissus that loves the rain. "

We strove for a name,
while the light of the lamps burnt thin
and the outer dawn came in,
a ghost, the last at the feast
or the first,
to sit within
with the two that remained
to quibble in flowers and verse
over a girl's name.

He said, the rain, loving.

Wae is my heart, and the tear 's in my e'e;
Lang, lang joy 's been a stranger to me:
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear,
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear.

Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved;
Love thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved:
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast,
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. —

O, if I were, where happy I hae been;
Down by yon stream and yon bonie castle-green:
For there he is wandring, and musing on me,

Tune, Ye're welcome Charlie Stewart

Chorus

O Lovely Polly Stewart!
O charming Polly Stewart!
There 's ne'er a flower that blooms in May
That 's hauf sae sweet as thou art. —

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's,
And art can ne'er renew it;
But Worth and Truth eternal youth
Will gie to Polly Stewart. —
O lovely &c.

May he, whase arms shall fauld thy charms,