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Autumn 'tis! Our garden stands Flowerless and bare, Dizzy whirling yellow leaves Fill the wind swept air.
Yet the distant mountain ash In the vale below, With our favorite berries red Now begins to glow.
While with rapture and with pain Throbbing in my breast, Pressing hot thy hands in mine, Silent, unexpressed-- Fondly gazing in thine eyes, Through my tears I see-- That I can never tell thee How dear thou art to me!
TOLSTOY.
BURNT OUT IS NOW MY MISERY
Burnt out is now my misery-- love's yearning No more unspeakably torments my heart, Yet bearable alone through thee, my being-- All thou art not is idle, stale and dying, Colourless, withered, dead,--save where thou art!
If I no more through false suspicion trouble Thy happiness,--nor more my blood inflames my veins, It is not turned to ice 'neath snowy cover, But free from jealousy, to thee thy lover Always with soul of ardour true remains.
So in their rapid fury mountain torrents That hurl them off their moss-grown altars steep, Seeking the flood with tossing, foaming riot-- Here in the vale are bound in the old currents, To stream in future calm and clear and deep!
TOLSTOY.
IN HOURS OF EBBING TIDE
In hours of ebbing tide, oh trust not to the Sea!
It will come back to sh.o.r.e with redness of the morrow; O don't believe in me when in the trance of sorrow I swear I am no longer true to thee!
The waves will roll again in dazzling ecstasy, From far away, with joy, to the beloved sh.o.r.e; And I with breast aflame, beneath thy charm once more, Shall haste to bring my liberty to thee!
TOLSTOY.
SWANS
White Swans, ye harbingers of Spring, a greeting fond from me!
Rejoicing thrills within the breast of Mother Earth anew-- From her once more the flowers push forth 'mid gleaming drops of dew, And like the Swans, across my soul my dreams will lightly sweep, And my heart blissful throbbing, ghostly tears of rapture weep.
O Spring I feel thy coming! And behold Thee, Poesy!
MAIKOW.
TO SLEEP
When shadows pale are sinking in hues the twilight weaves, Upon the golden grain fields of gleaming wheaten sheaves-- Upon the emerald pastures and blue of forests deep, When the soft mists of silver o'er the sea doth creep; When 'mid the reeds, the swan's head is pillowed 'neath her wings, The stream to sleep is rocking, light flowing as she sings,-- Then to my hut o'er thatched with golden straw,--o'er grown By frail acacia green and leafy oaks, I turn.
And there with greeting holy, in radiant starry crown-- Her scented locks with deepest of purple poppies bound, And with one dusky gauze enveiled her snowy breast-- The G.o.ddess comes to me with sweet desire of rest.
A faint and roseate fire about my brow she sheds, Soft mystery of azure above my eyelids spreads, Bends low upon my breast her regal star-crowned tresses And on my mouth and eyes, the kiss of slumber presses!
MAIKOW.
IN MEMORY OF MY DAUGHTER
Clear on the night of my spirit, To me s.h.i.+nes the glance of a star, It is she! My heart's little maiden!
From her glance gleams something afar, Of victory, deathless, eternal-- Something that musing, misgiving, Pierces the essence of being!
It cannot be! It cannot be!
She lives--soon she will waken; straightway Will ope her pretty eyes,--glad she Will prattle merry, laughing gay!
And when in tears beholding me-- Will smiling, kissing, cry consoling, "Papa--it is but playing--See!
I live,--yes! Leave off mourning!"
But cold and mute she lies, alas!
And motionless.
Now in her coffin she lies, Silent amid scented flowers-- Ah what mute spirits in white O'er her corpse circle and hover?
Are they the visions of bliss?
Are they all spirits of hope?
That during life lured her on--
Those to whom secretly oft She had entrusted her soul?
They that accompanied her e'er, Faithful in forest and field?
Silent they circle my child, In tearful anguish embraced-- Yet little actress she lies, Smiling, closed lashes beneath; See, she is laughing in truth-- thou most merciless Death!
MAIKOW.
MOTHER AND CHILD
"Mother, why weepest thou ever For my little sister fair?
She is now in heaven's kingdom-- Ah, it must be wondrous there!"
"Yes, she is in heaven's glory, But in heaven's own land, alas!
There are no b.u.t.terflies nor flowers-- Nor meadows of velvet gra.s.s!"
"But mother, G.o.d's blessed angels There, rejoicing sing to Him!"
Forth from the sunset's rosy fires Now cometh the midnight dim.
Ah, the mother wants her baby-- That she watched from the window wide, When 'mid b.u.t.terflies and blossoms She played in the meadow's pride!
MAIKOW.
