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The bleak fields are asleep, My heart alone wakes; The evening in the harbour Down his red sails takes. Night, guardian of dreams, Now wanders through the land; The moon, a lily white, Blossoms within her hand.
This poem is in the public domain. From Poems (Tobias A. Wright, 1918), translated by Jessie Lamont.
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
When my soul touches yours a great chord sings!
How shall I tune it then to other things?
O! That some spot in darkness could be found
That does not vibrate when’er your depth sound.
But everything that touches you and me
Welds us as played strings sound one melody.
Where is the instrument whence the sounds flow?
Again the woods are odorous, the lark
Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray
That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark,
Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.