Poplars are standing there still as death

And ghosts of dead men

Meet their ladies walking

Two by two beneath the shade

And standing on the marble steps.

There is a sound of music echoing

Through the open door

And in the field there is

Another sound tinkling in the cotton:

Chains of bondmen dragging on the ground.

The years go back with an iron clank,

A hand is on the gate,

A dry leaf trembles on the wall.

Ghosts are walking.

They have broken roses down

And poplars stand there still as death.

We can not tell what happiness 

We might on earth possess 

If in singleness of heart 

We would strive to act a proper part. 

‘Tis true we see the effects of sin

All without and all within. 

We long may live a life in vain, 

Much good possess, but still complain. 

We may appear to other eyes, 

To be extremely rich and wise; 

But if our hearts are not right, 

Life will not be beautiful and bright. 

Oh! may our life, day by day, 

In love and duty pass away; 

And at last when our bodies die, 

We may live in that world above the sky; 

Where free from sin, death and pain, 

The good will meet and love again. 

Like crawling black monsters

the big clouds tap at my window,

their shooting liquid fingers slide

over the staring panes

and merge on the red wall.

Some of the fingers pull at the hinges

and whisper insistently: “Let us come in,

the cruel wind whips and drives us

till we are sore and in despair.”

But I cannot harbor the big crawling black clouds,

I cannot save them from the angry wind.

In a tiny crevice of my aching heart

there is a big storm brewing

and loud clamour and constant prayer

for the reflection of snow-capped mountains

on a distant lake.

Tires and dazed I sit on a bear skin

and timidly listen to the concert of storms.

What kind of thoughts now, do you carry

   In your travels day by day

Are they bright and lofty visions, 

   Or neglected, gone astray?

Matters not how great in fancy, 

    Or what deeds of skill you’ve wrought; 

Man, though high may be his station, 

    Is no better than his thoughts. 

Catch your thoughts and hold them tightly, 

   Let each one an honor be; 

Purge them, scourge them, burnish brightly, 

   Then in love set each one free.