A Bouquet of Western Verse

A collection of poems translated from Western poetry

I met a sage carrying in his hands the book of wisdom.
I said: Sir, let me read in it.
He said: Child! — But I interrupted him, saying:
Sir, do not think me a child,
for I am aware of much that the pages of the book in your hands contain —
yes, and I know much of it. The man smiled, and opened the book, and spread its pages before me. And behold — suddenly — I had gone blind.

If it is for you to love me, let your love be for love's sake.
Do not say: I love her for her smile, for her glance, for her gentle talk, for a turn in her thinking that falls in with mine and creates a feeling of ease and peace, every day of life.
For these things, in themselves, may change, my beloved,
or may change in your eyes, and the love that was woven of them will unravel as it was woven. And do not love me out of the pity you feel as you wipe the tears from my cheek — for a creature long used to your tenderness may forget to weep, and so lose your love.
But love me for love's sake, that our love may live on, into eternity.

Of old, Freedom sat upon the heights, the thunder pealing at her feet,
the starry heavens quaking above her head, and in her ears the din of clashing currents.
She sat there rejoicing, content with her searching mind; but fragments of her resounding voice came borne on the wings of the winds,
then came down to the fields and the cities, and mingled with mankind,
and she drew the veil aside little by little,
and shone with her full face upon men.
O mother of majestic, stately deeds, gazing down upon us from her altar,
O you who carry the triple fork like the gods and wear the crown like kings,
your frank eyes seek out the truth; in them is a thousand years of wisdom.
Would that eternal youth might keep their light glittering,
never dimmed by tears;
would that your fair form might stand erect and luminous, shining before us,
softening the gloom of our dreams,
and scorning, with its holy lips, the lies of slanderers.

In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
squatting on the ground, holding his heart in his hands,
gnawing at it.
I said: Is it good, friend? He said:
It is bitter. Bitter. But I like it,
because it is bitter, and because it is my heart!

When the wayfarer caught sight of the road to truth,
wonder seized him, for he saw the weeds covering it,
and he said: I see that no one has walked it for a long while!
Then it became clear that every weed was a sharp knife, and he muttered:
'Doubtless there are other roads!'

This poem was written by the poet and novelist Thomas Hardy to the skylark that inspired Shelley's splendid poem.

Somewhere here, in this meadow, there lies — in the keeping of an earth forgetful of its trust, blind to its fidelity — a thing that breathed prophecy into the soul of a poet.
It is a handful of dust that eyes have passed over and men have neglected.

It is the dust — the dust of the skylark that Shelley heard
and raised up, an immortal spirit, through the folds of time — though it lived like every other bird, and never guessed in its inmost self the meaning of its immortality!!

It enjoyed a serene, gentle life, then dropped one day, a little heap of feathers and bones.. None knows how it died,
nor when it sang its farewell song..
nor when dissolution unbound the elements of its life!!

And who knows! Perhaps that spirit has settled in the soil of this greenness that stirs before my eyes! Or perhaps it flutters in the green of a flowering myrtle! Or dozes in the tint of a grape on the slopes of these outskirts.

So steal forth, daughters of 'Abqar... steal forth and seek it out —
this small handful of dust that no money can price —
and bring a casket lined with silver, cased in gold, studded with jewels!
Let us lay it there in peace, hallowed against time, in reward for what it inspired in a poet who rose to the highest reaches of enchantment and magic, in the heaven of thought and melody!!

Do not pity me because the light of day, at sunset, no longer ripples through the sky.
Do not pity me because the colors of beauty pass from field and wood as the seasons change.
Do not pity me for the waning of the moon, nor for the ebbing of the sea,
nor because man's desire burns out so quickly,
nor because you no longer cast upon me the glance of love.

I have known all this. Love is no more than the blossom the wind scorches,
no more than the tide that washes the shore and strews upon it the wreckage of storms.
Pity me rather because the heart is slow — slow to grasp what the mind sees at every turn.

Teach me, Father, to walk unhurried, as the grasses grow;
send calm down upon my heart until it stands, like deaf rock, against the blows of a world gone mad.

And let it keep, in the raging of its strength, the tenderness of the flower.
And let this thirsting heart fill its cup to receive the sky, in the gladness of the dew-freshened anemone.
And when the heart is brimming full, and new life stirs within it,
let it bear its crown in the meekness of the anemone weighted down with dew.

Teach me, Father, to give my kindness without weariness,
as the tree gives its spreading shade to those who pass —
that shade which spreads the spirit of gladness among the grasshoppers singing beneath it at noon,

in whose gentle breaths the insects, tireless on life's journey, find refreshment.
Let me, then, shed joy and contentment on all that is around me, on far-off pastures
and remote ravines, as the bending tree's shadows do —
that passing souls may take shelter in them for moments into which life has poured all its serenity and beauty.