"WORDS, WORDS, WORDS "

This little hour of life, this lean to-day,

351

What were it worth but for those mighty dreams That sweep from down the past on sounding streams Of such high-thoughted words as poets say?

What, but for Shakespeare's and for Homer's lay,
And bards whose sacred names all lips repeat?
Words, only words; yet, save for tongue and pen

Of those great givers of them unto men,
And burdens they still bear of grave or sweet,
This world were but for beasts, a darkling den.

TRANSLATIONS

FOUR SONNETS FROM SULLY PRUD

HOMME

SIESTA

ALL summer let me lie along the grass,

Hands under head, and lids that almost close;
Nor mix a sigh with breathings of the rose,
Nor vex light-sleeping echo with "Alas!”
Fearless, I will abandon blood, and limb,
And very soul to the all-changing hours;
In calmness letting the unnumbered powers
Of nature weave my rest into their hymn.
Beneath the sunshine's golden tent uplift

Mine eyes shall watch the upper blue unfurled,
Till its deep joy into my heart shall sift

Through lashes linked, and, dreaming on the world, Its love and hate, or memories far of these, Shall lull me like the sound of distant seas.

FOUR SONNETS FROM PRUDHOMME 353

THE CLOUD

Couched on the turf, and lying mute and still,
While the deep heaven lifts higher and more pure,
I love to watch, as if some hidden lure

It followed, one light cloud above the hill.
The flitting film takes many an aspect strange:
An orchard's snow; a far-off, sunlit sail;
A fleck of foam; a seraph's floating veil.
We see it altered, never see it change.
Now a soft shred detaches, fades from sight;

Another comes, melts, and the blue is clear
And clearer, as when breath has dimmed the steel.
Such is my changeful spirit, year by year:

A sigh, the soul of such a cloud, as light
And vanishing, lost in the infinite.

IN SEPARATION

The bliss that happy lovers dream will bloom
Forever new shall scarce outlast the year:
Their calmer kisses wake nor smile nor tear;
Love's nesting-place already is its tomb,

Since sated eyes grow weary of their prey,

And constant vows their own best hopes betray,
And love's June lily, marred but by a breath,
Falls where the other lilies lie in death,
Therefore the doom of land and sea that bar
My life from hers I do accept. At least
No passion will rise jaded from the feast,

354 FOUR SONNETS FROM PRUDHOMME

My pure respect no passing fires can stain; So without hope I love her, without pain, Without desire, as one might love a star.

L'AMOUR ASSASSINÉ

Poor wretch! that smites, in his despair insane,
The tender mouth for which he has no bread,
And in some lonely spot, ere it be dead,
Covers the little corse, yet warm, ill-slain :
So I struck down dear Love for being born!

I smoothed the limbs, and closed the eyes, and lone The darling form was left, 'neath ponderous stones; Then, at my deed dismayed, I fled forlorn.

I deemed my love was dead indeed, in vain!
Erect he speaks, close by the open tomb,
'Mid April lilacs even there in bloom,
With immortelles his pale brow glorified :

"Thou didst but wound; I live to seek her side;

Not by thy hand, not thine, can I be slain!"

MY PEACE THOU ART

AFTER SCHUBERT'S "DU BIST MEIN' RUH'

My peace thou art, thou art my rest From thee my pain, in thee so blest : Enter mine eyes, this heart draw near; Oh come, oh dwell forever here.

Enter, and close the door, and come, And be this breast thine endless home; Shut out all lesser care and woe,

I would thy hurt and healing know.

Clear light that on my soul hath shone, Still let it shine from thee alone,

From thee alone.