So they drift in an unfortunate fate,
That only melancholy may fathom completely.
The clouds lead their ways,
A migration of birds may sometimes escort them,
Until it loses their track in the evening,
And the wind sometimes carries an Ave of bells
In their camp’s star-loneliness,
So that their songs swell more longing
And sob from inherited curse and suffering,
That no stars of hope softly illuminate.
Composed of autumn cloud,And golden evening stillness;In the shadows thrownBy the broken pine treesA mountain stream turns dark in the green light;A little townThat piously dies away into brown pictures.Now the black horses rearIn the foggy pasture.I think of soldiers!Down the hill, where the dying sun lumbers,The laughing blood plunges,SpeechlessUnder the oak trees! Oh the…
across the dimming village. Molten metal sparks in the blacksmith’s.A massive horse rears darkly back. To the fervor of its blazing nostrilsthe hyacinth curls of the servant girl cling.At the edge of the woods a faint cry stiffens the deer’s back,and the yellow flowers of autumnbend wordlessly over the pond’s blue countenance.The tree was consumed…
Under arches in the eveningNew wine goes round;Snow falls behind the mountain.Summer’s last green drifts away,Hunter comes from the forest.Under arches in the eveningNew wine goes round;Snow falls behind the mountain.Bat blows around the forehead,A stranger comes silently.Under arches in the eveningNew wine goes round;Snow falls behind the mountain.
The absolute stillness of this golden day.Under ancient oak treesyou appear, Elis, a dormant seed with round eyes.Their blueness reflects the slumber of lovers,whose rosy sighsdie on your lips.At evening the fishermen drew in their heavy nets.A good shepherdleads his herd to the edge of the woods.O, Elis, how just are your days!Wordlessly, by barren…
Dahlias hang over itEver more silent homecoming,The dark reflection of childish yearsBy the decayed garden,That tears fall from blue eyelidsIrresistibly;Gloom’s crystalline minutesGleam overTo the night.
Silenced the shepherd’s tender fluteAnd the evening’s brown and blueGone and passed as is the gold of day.
