Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

Bytuene Mershe and Averil
When spray biginneth to springe,
The lutel foul hath hire wyl
On hyre lud to synge:
Ich libbe in love-longinge
For semlokest of alle thynge,
He may me blisse bringe,
Ich am in hire baundoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.

On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,
Hire browe broune, hire eye blake;
With lossum chere he on me loh;
With middel smal and wel y-make;
Bote he me wolle to hire take
For to buen hire owen make,
Long to lyven ichulle forsake
And feye fallen adoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
And lyht on Alysoun.

Nihtes when I wende and wake,
For-thi myn wonges waxeth won,
Levedi, al for thine sake
Longinge is y-lent me on.

...

TREAD lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

...

My dream rolls on
like tyres moving on the street.
Friction raises temperatures.
Before I realize
dream evaporates to dryness.
I see people working -
the next meal is like a dream,
sleep too as sleeping tablets
perform miserably.
Dream - just to forget

...

Coolness--
the sound of the bell
as it leaves the bell.


Translated by Robert Hass
...

Our conquering swords shall marshall us the way
We use to march upon the slaughter'd foe,
Trampling their bowels with our horses' hoofs,
Brave horses bred on the white Tartarian hills.
My camp is like to Julius Caesar's host,
That never fought but had the victory;
Nor in Pharsalia was there such hot war
As these, my followers, willingly would have.
Legions of spirits, fleeting in the air,
Direct our bullets and our weapons' points,

...

On this moonless night,
I waited for the full moon.

I could not board the boat;
the tide was rising
to meet the moon.

I waited for the swell to settle—
for the waters to still,
for the gap to open—

...

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.


Region of life and light!
Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er!
Nor frost nor heat may blight
Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore,
Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore!

There without crook or sling,
Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red
Round his meek temples cling;
And to sweet pastures led,
His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed.

He guides, and near him they
Follow delighted, for he makes them go
Where dwells eternal May,
And heavenly roses blow,
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height
Named of the infinite and long-sought Good,
And fountains of delight;
And where his feet have stood
Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when, in the mid skies,
The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,
Reposing as he lies,

...

I opened wide the bath-room door,
And all at once switched on the light,
When moving swift across the floor
I saw a streak of ebon bright:
Then quick, with slipper in my hand,
Before it could escape,--I slammed.
I missed it once, I missed it twice,
But got it ere it gained its lair.
I fear my words were far from nice,
Though d----s with me are rather rare:

...

Go tell the leaders pacing polished floors,
Who track the profit in a sudden fall;
A rough, storm-battered hull has hit the reef,
Answering the heavy, final call.
…
That line may not been steady on the wave;
It slipped the course and left its share of stains;
Yet some grand acts outshine the grey mistakes,
When measured by the wreckage that remains.
…

...