Short Poems

Burdock,
Blue aconite,
And thistle and thorn. .of these
Singing I wreathe my pretty wreath
O'death.

Om Haabet, — ja om Haabet drømmer hver,
Og Du besang, hvad vi kun drømme her.

Ma ben veggi'or si come al popol tutto
Favola fui gran tempo: onde sovente
Di me medesmo meco mi vergogno...

As some rapt gazer on the lowly earth,
Looks up to radiant planets, ranging far,
So I, whose soul doth know thy wondrous worth
Look longing up to thee as to a star.

Once Love grew bold and arrogant of air,
Proud of the youth that made him fresh and fair;
So unto Grief he spake, 'What right hast thou
To part or parcel of this heart?' Grief's brow
Was darkened with the storm of inward strife;
Thrice smote he Love as only he might dare,
And Love, pride purged, was chastened all his life.

She sang alone, ere womanhood had known
The gift of song which fills the air to-day
Tender and sweet, a music all her own
May fitly linger where she knelt to pray.

Who call her Mother and who calls her Wife
Look on her grave and see not Death but Life.

Madam, they say, has lost her way.
Tell me, has she passed thither?
Let her alone and she'll come home,
And bring her tales all with her.

The foot of my machine
Sails up and down
Upon the blue of this fine lady's gown.
Sail quickly, little boat,
With gifts for me,
Night and the goldy streets and liberty.

Ma Muse fuit les champs abreuvés de carnage,
Et ses pieds innocents ne se poseront pas
Où la cendre des morts gémirait sous ses pas.
Elle pâlit d'entendre et le cri des batailles,
Et les assauts tonnants qui frappent les murailles,
Et le sang qui jaillit sous les pointes d'airain
Souillerait la blancheur de sa robe de lin.