'He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'
He made no promise, yet
Wondering if he'll come, I wait,
In the early evening;
If only it would stay this way,
Remaining light…
He is angry, him I'll chase,
by collor I'll catch hold of him
on dooms day, I'll hold thee by thy robe;
without thee, here I die
He had served eighty masters. They'd have said
He 'worked for these employers' to earn bread.
And they, if they had heard him, would have sneered
To brand him inefficient whom they feared.
For to know eighty masters is to know
What sort of thing men who are masters grow.
He did love three things in this world:
Choir chants at vespers, albino peacocks,
And worn, weathered maps of America.
And he did not love children crying,
Or tea served with raspberries,
Or woman's hysteria.
...And I was his wife.
He came to see me
and left saying
see me.
Having slept, the cat gets up,
yawns, goes out
to make love.
Translated by Robert Hass
Having seen them long,
I hold the flowers so dear
That when they scatter
I find it all the more sad
To bid them my last farewell.
A thrush, because I'd been wrong,
Burst rightly into song
In a world not vague, not lonely,
Not governed by me only.
Having drifted apart,
Why should folk
Despise each other? For
Not known and unknowing
Times there were once before…
