What saw you in your flight to-day,
Crows awinging your homeward way?

Went you far in carrion quest,
Crows that worry the sunless west?

Thieves and villains, you shameless things
Black your record as black your wings.

Tell me, birds of the inky hue,
Plunderous rogues—to-day have you

Seen with mischievous, prying eyes
Lands where earlier suns arise?  

Saw you a lazy beck between
Trees that shadow its breast in green,    

Teased by obstinate stones that lie 
Crossing the current tauntingly?

Fields abloom on the farther side       
With purpling clover lying wide—

Saw you there as you circled by,
Vale-environed a cottage lie,

Girt about with emerald bands, 
Nestling down in its meadow lands?

Saw you this on your thieving raids?
Speak—you rascally renegades!

Thieved you also away from me
Olden scenes that I long to see?

If, O! crows, you have flown since morn
Over the place where I was born,           

Forget will I, how black you were     
Since dawn, in feather and character;   

Absolve will I, your vagrant band,         
Ere you enter your slumberland.

West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing’s past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep,
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.

We’ve raced the rapid, we’re far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon,
And we two dreaming the dusk away,
Beneath the drift of a twilight grey—
Beneath the drowse of an ending day
And the curve of a golden moon.

It is dark on the Lost Lagoon,
And gone are the depths of haunting blue,
The grouping gulls, and the old canoe,
The singing firs, and the dusk and—you,
And gone is the golden moon.

O lure of the Lost Lagoon—
I dream to-night that my paddle blurs
The purple shade where the seaweed stirs—
I hear the call of the singing firs
In the hush of the golden moon.

                                  I

Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping
    With shadowy garments, the wilderness through;
All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping,
    So echo the anthems we warbled to you;
               While we swing, swing,
               And your branches sing,
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

                                  II

Sing to us, cedars; the night-wind is sighing,
    Is wooing, is pleading, to hear you reply;
And here in your arms we are restfully lying,
    And longing to dream to your soft lullaby;
               While we swing, swing,
               And your branches sing.
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

                                  III

Sing to us, cedars; your voice is so lowly,
    Your breathing so fragrant, your branches so strong;
Our little nest-cradles are swaying so slowly,
    While zephyrs are breathing their slumberous song.
               And we swing, swing,
               While your branches sing,
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

Before man came to blow it right
    The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
    In any rough place where it caught.

Man came to tell it what was wrong:
    It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard—the aim was song.
    And listen—how it ought to go!

He took a little in his mouth,
    And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
    And then by measure blew it forth.

By measure. It was word and note,
    The wind the wind had meant to be—
A little through the lips and throat.
    The aim was song—the wind could see.

Not of the seething cities with their swarming human hives,
Their fetid airs, their reeking streets, their dwarfed and poisoned lives,
Not of the buried yesterdays, but of the days to be,
The glory and the gateway of the yellow West is she.

The Northern Lights dance down her plains with soft and silvery feet,
The sunrise gilds her prairies when the dawn and daylight meet ;
Along her level lands the fitful southern breezes sweep,
And beyond her western windows the sublime old mountains sleep.

The Redman haunts her portals, and the Paleface treads her streets,
The Indian’s stealthy footstep with the course of commerce meets,
And hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten tales
Of phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight trails.

Not hers the lore of olden lands, their laurels and their bays ;
But what are these, compared to one of all her perfect days?
For naught can buy the jewel that upon her forehead lies––
The cloudless sapphire Heaven of her territorial skies.

                                  I

Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping
    With shadowy garments, the wilderness through;
All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping,
    So echo the anthems we warbled to you;
               While we swing, swing,
               And your branches sing,
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

                                  II

Sing to us, cedars; the night-wind is sighing,
    Is wooing, is pleading, to hear you reply;
And here in your arms we are restfully lying,
    And longing to dream to your soft lullaby;
               While we swing, swing,
               And your branches sing.
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

                                  III

Sing to us, cedars; your voice is so lowly,
    Your breathing so fragrant, your branches so strong;
Our little nest-cradles are swaying so slowly,
    While zephyrs are breathing their slumberous song.
               And we swing, swing,
               While your branches sing,
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

Music, music with throb and swing, 
   Of a plaintive note, and long; 
’Tis a note no human throat could sing, 
No harp with its dulcet golden string,—
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring, 
   Is sweet as the robin’s song. 

He sings for the love of the season
   When the days grow warm and long, 
For the beautiful God-sent reason
   That his breast was born for song. 

Calling, calling so fresh and clear, 
   Through the song-sweet days of May; 
Warbling there, and whistling here, 
He swells his voice on the drinking ear, 
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
   ’Till his music drowns the day. 

He sings for love of the season
   When the days grow warm and long, 
For the beautiful God-sent reason
   That his breast was born for song. 

Moon tonight,
Beloved . . .
When twilight
Has gathered together
The ends
Of her soft robe
And the last bird-call
Has died.
Moon tonight—
Cool as a forgotten dream,
Dearer than lost twilights
Among trees where birds sing
No more.

Little lone swallow frequenting the skies in the bleakness of oncoming rain,
Gloating on the view by the river reflected when days of sun reappear,
You who can sing in the fulness of sorrow, and in seasons of gladness usefully sing,
You who in mirth and melancholy alike find joy, joy in you we find.

We who aspire to vistas beyond us and only can lift our eyes,
We who live in transient gladness and hovering gloom,
We of the earth who cannot fly with you.

What life is yours who pursue not pleasure and yet have it,
You who know sorrow and by it be left unoppressed
You who in shadow arise, and in sunshine pensively dream on the river,
Of gladness not taking nor little nor much,
Of sorrow the master more often than not,
Knowing the one and the other as passing, imperfect,
Passing as the clouds in the bleakness of oncoming rain,
Imperfect as the vista by the river reflected when days of sun reappear.

^{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.

The sundial makes no sign
At the point of the August noon.
The sky is of ancient tin,
And the ring of the mountains diffused and unmade
(One always remembers them).
On the twisted dark of the hemlock hedge
Rain, like a line of shivering violin-bows
Hissing together, poised on the last turgescent swell,
Batters the flowers.
Under the trumpet-vine arbor,
Clear, precise as an Audubon print,
           The air is of melted glass,
           Solid, filling interstices
Of leaves that are spaced on the spines
           Like a pattern ground into glass;
           Dead, as though dull red glass were poured into the mouth,
Choking the breath, molding itself into the creases of soft red tissues.

And a humming-bird darts head first,
Splitting the air, keen as a spurt of fire shot from the blow-pipe,
Cracking a star of rays; dives like a flash of fire,
Forked tail lancing the air, into the immobile trumpet;
Stands on the air, wings like a triple shadow
Whizzing around him.

Shadows thrown on the midnight streets by a snow-flecked arc-light,
Shadows like sword-play,
Splinters and spines from a thousand dreams
Whizz from his wings!

The autumn afternoon is dying o’er
   The quiet western valley where I lie
Beneath the maples on the river shore,
   Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair sky
   Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by

To seek their evening haven in the breast
   And calm embrace of silence, while they sing
Te Deums to the night, invoking rest
   For busy chirping voice and tired wing—
   And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing.

In forest arms the night will soonest creep,
   Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,
Where Nature’s children curl themselves to sleep,
   And all is still at last, save where alone
   A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.

Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day,
   Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend
With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away
   With rivers where their sweeping waters wend
   Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in cañons bold to end.

O’er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,
   Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown?
In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led
   Their aërial career unseen, unknown,
   ’Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?

The flapping of their pinions in the air
   Dies in the hush of distance, while they light
Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,
   That stand with giant strength and peerless height,
   To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night.

Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,
   Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!
Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, rise
   To unrestricted life where ebb and flow
   Of Nature’s pulse would constitute a wider life below!

Could I but live just here in Freedom’s arms,
   A kingly life without a sovereign’s care!
Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms,
   And all is cradled in repose, save where
   Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.

^{translated by Rose Pastor Stokes and Helena Frank}

Fair summer is here, glad summer is here!
O hark! ’tis to you I am singing:
The sun is all gold in a heaven of blue,
The birds in the forest are trilling for you,
The flies ’mid the grasses are winging;
The little brook babbles—its secret is sweet.
The loveliest flowers would circle your feet,—
And you to your work ever clinging! . . .
Come forth! Nature loves you. Come forth! Do not fear!
Fair summer is here, glad summer is here,
Full measure of happiness bringing.
All creatures drink deep; and they pour wine anew
In the old cup of life, and they wonder at you.
Your portion is waiting since summer began;
Then take it, oh, take it, you laboring man! 

’Tis summer today; ay, summer today!
The butterflies light on the flowers.
Delightfully glistens the silvery rain.
The mountains are covered with greenness again.
And perfumed and cool are the bowers.
The sheep frisk about in the flowery vale.
The shepherd and shepherdess pause in the dale.
And these are the holiest hours! . . .
Delay not, delay not, life passes away!
’Tis summer today, sweet summer today!
Come, throttle your wheel’s grinding power! . . .
Your worktime is bitter and endless in length;
And have you not foolishly lavished your strength?
O think not the world is with bitterness rife,
But drink of the wine from the goblet of life.

O, summer is here, sweet summer is here!
I cannot forever be trilling;
I flee on the morrow. Then, you, have a care!
The crow, from the perch I am leaving, the air
With ominous cries will be filling.
O, while I am singing to you from my tree
Of love, and of life, and of joy yet to be.
Arouse you!—O why so unwilling! . . .
The heavens remain not so blue and so clear;—
Now summer is here! Come, summer is here!
Reach out for the joys that are thrilling!
For like you who fade at your wheel, day by day,
Soon all things will fade and be carried away.
Our lives are but moments; and sometimes the cost
Of a moment overlooked is eternity lost.

When the spring boughs were told
Soon the rose will unfold
    Herself in the bower
           Of which she is queen,
Their blossoms, beguiling
The sad leaves, said smiling :
    “No slaves to a flower
        Have we ever been.”

Our lords are the birds.
And they love not in words ;
    They sing when we smile
           And sob when we fall ;
Her lord is the liar—
The thief or the buyer—
    Who smells her the while
           She lives, and that’s all.

A frog leaps out across the lawn,
And crouches there—all heavy and alone,
And like a blossom, pale and over-blown,
Once more the moon turns dim against the dawn.

Crawling across the straggling panoply
Of little roses, only half in bloom,
It strides within that beamed and lofty room
Where an ebon stallion looms upon the hay.

The stillness moves, and seems to grow immense,
A shuddering dog starts, dragging at its chain,
Thin, dusty rats slink down within the grain,
And in the vale the first far bells commence.

Here in the dawn, with mournful doomèd eyes
A cow uprises, moving out to bear
A soft-lipped calf with swarthy birth-swirled hair,
And wide wet mouth, and droll uncertainties.

The grey fowls fight for places in the sun,
The mushrooms flare, and pass like painted fans:
All the world is patient in its plans—
The seasons move forever, one on one.

Small birds lie sprawling vaguely in the heat,
And wanly pluck at shadows on their breasts,
And where the heavy grape-vine leans and rests,
White butterflies lift up their furry feet.

The wheat grows querulous with unseen cats;
A fox strides out in anger through the corn,
Bidding each acre wake and rise to mourn
Beneath its sharps and through its throaty flats.

And so it is, and will be year on year,
Time in and out of date, and still on time
A billion grapes plunge bleeding into wine
And bursting, fall like music on the ear.

The snail that marks the girth of night with slime,
The lonely adder hissing in the fern,
The lizard with its ochre eyes aburn—
Each is before, and each behind its time.

All that I dream
      By day or night
Lives in that stream
      Of lovely light.
Here is the earth,
      And there is the spire;
This is my hearth,
      And that is my fire.
From the sun's dome
      I am shouted proof
That this is my home,
      And that is my roof.
Here is my food,
      And here is my drink,
And I am wooed
      From the moon's brink.
And the days go over,
      And the nights end;
Here is my lover,
      Here is my friend.
All that I
      Could ever ask
Wears that sky
      Like a thin gold mask.

Nothing today hasn’t happened before: 
I woke alone, bundled the old dog
into his early winter coat, watered him, 
fed him, left him to his cage for the day 
closing just now. My eye drifts 
to the buff belly of a hawk wheeling, 
as they do, in a late fall light that melts 
against the turning oak and smelts 
its leaves bronze. 
                             Before you left, 
I bent to my task, fixed in my mind
the slopes and planes of your face; 
fitted, in some essential geography,
your belly’s stretch and collapse 
against my own, your scent familiar 
as a thousand evenings. 
                                       Another time, 
I might have dismissed as hunger 
this cataloguing, this fitting, this fixing, 
but today I crest the hill, secure in the company 
of my longing. What binds us, stretches:
a tautness I’ve missed as a sapling, 
supple, misses the wind.

^{Translated from the Spanish by Yvette Siegert}

Summer, I am leaving. And how they pain me,
These meek hands of your afternoons. 
You arrive devout; you arrive old; and now
You will find my soul with no one in it. 

Oh, summer. You pass through my balconies
With your great rosary of amethyst and gold
Like a tragic bishop who travels far
To find and bless the broken 
Rings of two dead lovers. 

Summer, I am leaving. And there in September,
You will find a rose I’ve left especially in your care,
For you to tend to with holy water
On all the days of sin and tombs.

If, from all the sobbing, the mausoleum
Should spread its marble wings in the light of faith,
Lift up your voice and pray to God
The light stays dead forever.
Everything is late already.
You will find my soul with no one in it.

There now, summer, no more sobbing. The rose in
That furrow will die but bloom and bloom again. 

Verano

Verano, ya me voy. Y me dan pena
las manitas sumisas de tus tardes.
Llegas devotamente; llegas viejo;
y ya no encontrarás en mi alma a nadie.

Verano! y pasarás por mis balcones
con gran rosario de amatistas y oros,
como un obispo triste que llegara
de lejos a buscar y bendecir
los rotos aros de unos muertos novios.

Verano, ya me voy. Allá, en setiembre
tengo una rosa que te encargo mucho;
la regarás de agua bendita todos
los días de pecado y de sepulcro.

Si a fuerza de llorar el mausoleo,
con luz de fe su mármol aletea,
levanta en alto tu responso, y pide
a Dios que siga para siempre muerta.
Todo ha de ser ya tarde;
y tú no encontrarás en mi alma a nadie.

Ya no llores, Verano! En aquel surco
muere una rosa que renace mucho. . . 

Sounds of the seas grow fainter,
   Sounds of the sands have sped; 
The sweep of gales,
The far white sails, 
   Are silent, spent and dead. 

Sounds of the days of summer
   Murmur and die away, 
And distance hides
The long, low tides, 
  As night shuts out the day. 

O welcome death! I’m glad you’ve come
       ’Twill serve my purpose true:
Just cut eternity’s veil in twain
        And let my soul pass through, 
And away from Earth’s dismal scene
        And the merry making crowd, 
The giddy whirl of the banquet hall,
        To home beyond the cloud—
Ah! then, dear mother, weep no more, 
       But strive to meet me there: 
The space is small twixt life and death, 
      Fill it well with prayer—
So now, O, death, let fall thy sword, 
      ’Tis but a kiss of love
Much welcomed by the eager soul, 
    Waiting to flit above. 
Farewell to earth! Farewell to friends. 
     To maiden young and gay, 
Think well on how you spend your life, 
    For death will come one day. 

Oh list to my song, my sweet, dark eyed 
    dove! 
   Oh list to thy lover today! 
For I’ve come from afar, to woo thee
    again, 
   Though, erstwhile, you sent me away. 

But I heard thy sighs in my troubled 
    dreams. 
   And methought they were sighs of pain; 
So I’ve come, I’ve come on the wings of 
    of my love, 
   To offer my true heart again. 

Oh say that my heart has not hoped in 
    vain! 
   Oh tell me the sweet dream was true! 
And lift those dark lashes, oh sweet love 
    of mine,
   And hide not thine eyes from my view.

Oh love, those dear eyes are telling the 
    tale, 
   That thy lips refuse to repeat! 
Come thou, to my heart; thou art mine, 
    thou art mine, 
   Till time and eternity meet!

The dreams of the dreamer
   Are life-drops that pass
The break in the heart
   To the soul’s hour-glass.

The songs of the singer
   Are tones that repeat
The cry of the heart
   ‘Till it ceases to beat.