She went out singing, and the poppies still
Crowd round her door awaiting her return;
She went out dancing, and the doleful rill
Lingers beneath her walls her news to learn.
Their love is but a seed of what she has sown;
Their grief is but a shadow of my own.
O Tomb, O Tomb! did Zahra’s beauty fade,
Or dost thou still preserve it in thy gloom?
O, Tomb, thou art nor firmament nor glade,
Yet in thee shines the moon and lilies bloom.
From A Chant of Mystics (James T. White & Co., 1921) by Ameen Rihani. This poem is in the public domain.
Go;—for ’tis Memorial morning—
Go with hearts of peace and love;
Deck the graves of fallen soldiers;
Go, your gratitude to prove.
Gather flow’rs and take them thither,
Emblem of a nation’s tears;
Grateful hearts cannot forget them,
In the rush of passing years.
Strew the flow’rs above their couches;
Let thy heart’s affection blend,
With the dewy buds and blossoms,
That in fragrant showers descend.
Strew the flow’rs above the heroes,
Slain for loving friends and thee;
Canst thou find a better off’ring,
For those sons of liberty?
While the buds and blooms are falling,
Earnest hearts are asking,—Why—
In a tone, though low and gentle,
Yet, as ardent as a cry,—
‘Why must precious lives be given,
That our country may be free?
Is there not a nobler pathway
To the throne of liberty?
‘Can we choose no nobler watch-word,
Than the ringing battle-cry,
Harbinger of strife and bloodshed,
Must we sin, that sin may die?
‘Long ago, to far Judea,
Came the blessed Prince of Peace:
Shall we ever heed His teaching,
That these wars and feuds may cease?’
The credit line is as follows: Songs from the Wayside (Self published, 1908) by Clara Ann Thompson. Copyright © 1908 by Clara Ann Thompson. This poem is in the public domain.
translated from the Spanish by William Cullen Bryant
My bird has flown away,
Far out of sight has flown, I know not where.
Look in your lawn, I pray,
Ye maidens, kind and fair,
And see if my beloved bird be there.
His eyes are full of light;
The eagle of the rock has such an eye;
And plumes, exceeding bright,
Round his smooth temples lie,
And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.
Look where the grass is gay
With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers;
And search, from spray to spray,
The leafy laurel-bowers,
For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.
Find him, but do not dwell,
With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see,
Nor love his song too well;
Send him, at once, to me,
Or leave him to the air and liberty.
For only from my hand
He takes the seed into his golden beak,
And all unwiped shall stand
The tears that wet my cheek,
Till I have found the wanderer I seek.
My sight is darkened o’er,
Whene’er I miss his eyes, which are my day,
And when I hear no more
The music of his lay,
My heart in utter sadness faints away.
El pájaro perdido
¡Huyó con vuelo incierto,
Y de mis ojos ha desparecido! . . .
¡Mirad si a vuestro huerto
Mi pájaro querido,
Niñas hermosas, por acaso ha huido!
Sus ojos relucientes
Son como los del águila orgullosa;
Plumas resplandecientes
En la cabeza airosa
Lleva, y su voz es tierna y armoniosa.
Mirad si cuidadoso
Junto a las flores se escondió en la grama:
Ese laurel frondoso
Mirad rama por rama,
Que él los laureles y las flores ama.
Si le halláis por ventura,
No os enamore su amoroso acento;
No os prende su hermosura:
Volvédmele al momento,
O dejadle, si no, libre en el viento.
Porque su pico de oro
Sólo en mi mano toma la semilla,
Y no enjugaré el lloro
Que veis en mi mejilla
Hasta encontrar mi prófuga avecilla.
Mi vista se oscurece
Si sus ojos no ve, que son mi día;
Mi ánima desfallece
Con la melancolía
De no escucharle ya su melodía.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on October 15, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.