POEMS

I'll share a brand-new Fairy Tale with you:

How the cheerful Elves flew over the ocean

From the Emerald Isle to this distant shore,

As they used to in the old days;

And pulled their pranks one moonlit night,

Where only the gentle breezes could see what was happening.

Ere the Old world yet had found the New,

The fairies often flew around in their playful antics

To the fragrant islands of the Caribbean—

Bright treasures of a golden sea.

Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye,

These delicate creatures to suspect or watch, —

So they danced in the hidden spicy groves,

And their fun and games were completely wild, I think;

For the fairies, just like other quiet little elves,

Are most free and happiest when they're alone.

No one thought that later on,

The Muse would reflect their actions in rhyme;

So happily taking off my light stockings and shoes,

They stumbled through the meadow, all glistening with dew.

I could share some really fun stories,

Of barefoot fairies that danced in the valleys—

But the gossip lovers, I'll leave hanging—

And besides, these elves don't belong to the church.

If they danced—just so you know—it wasn't in the climate

Of your Mathers and Hookers, where laughter was a crime;

Where true virtue stood watch over the lips,

Though witchcraft sneaked into the heart by accident!

Oh no! It was the land of the fruit and the flower—

Where Summer and Spring both lived in one shelter—

Where one hung the ripe citron from the branch,

And the other with flowers wrapped around her head;

Where the mountains held hidden treasures of gold,

And the rivers flowed over rubies and emeralds.

It was there where the seasons came just to bring good fortune,

And the styles of Eden were still present, in clothing,

That these cheerful little fairies used to, as I mentioned,

To sneak away during their happiest moments of fun.

But dropping the curtain on playfulness and enjoyment,

Too good to be shared, or too bad to carry out,

I present to you a story from Fancy's own drawing,

Though I warn you he's prone to lying—the jerk!

Yet I learn from the stories of winds and streams,

It's as true as the fairy tales found in books.

One night, when the moon shone brightly over the ocean,

Choice spirits were gathered from the meadow and the plain—

And gently stepping off from Ireland's rugged cliffs,

They glided over the waves in their moonlit boats.

A beam for a steering wheel—a idea for a sail—

Swift, swift was each bark as fast as the wind.

Enough, that they finally arrived at the Isle,

Where moonlight and fragrance competed the whole time.

Not yet had those ships from Palos been here,

To change the bright gem into a tear mixed with blood.

Oh no! The land is still blissful and peaceful,

And the cheerful elves flew from the sea to the shore.

Right happy and joyful seemed now the loving crew,

As they stumbled through the orange groves sparkling with dew,

For they were going to have a party that night,

A gay fancy ball, and each to be dressed

In the gem or the flower that preference might select,

From the mountain or valley, for its scent or colors.

Away sped the maskers like arrows of light

To collect their gear for the lively celebration.

To the stunning mountains of distant Peru,

In competitive speed, some playfully flew,

And deep in the mine, or among the high glaciers,

For ruby and sapphire, searched carefully and subtly.

For rare diamonds that shine in the earth

Of Brazilian streams, some rushed joyfully,

While others go after topaz and emerald,

'In the cradle cliffs of Paraguay.

As they are collecting the rarest gems,

Others are picking the rarest stems.

They roam through wild valleys where only the gentle breeze,

To the shy flowers that were known before;

Through forests they fly, with branches that are draped

By climbing plants, with pretty little flowers tied together,

Where nature's temples stand with arches of flowers,

Are lit by the moonlight and faintly scented.

They wander where the mangrove and clematis twist,

Where azaleas and laurels shine in competition;

Where, tall as the oak, the passion tree shines,

And jasmine is mixed with rhodora and rose.

O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light,

'In the middle of summer, they fly by,

And gathering the most beautiful ones, they hurry to their hideaway,

Each one with his favorite gem or flower.

The time has come, and the fairies are visible.

In their loot spread out on the moonlit grass.

The music is breathed—it's a gentle sound of joy,

And the excited crowd spins into the rhythm.

'Twas a joyful dance, and the dresses were vibrant,

Such as had never been known until that famous night;

For the gems and the flowers that sparkled in the scene,

Outmatched the attire of princesses and queens.

No flashy servant to a beautiful person's side

Was it the rose, the ruby, or the emerald now,

But illuminated by the spirits of the playful elves,

The bright colors and flowers looked like they were dancing on their own.

Of everything that happened, it would take a long time to explain,

Of the dresses and dances, and who was the it girl;

But everyone was so happy, and they all looked so beautiful,

That night slipped away and the dawn found them there!

Such a hustle and bustle has never been seen before,

As the fairies flew across that green island.

They hurried to the bay with sparkling feet,

But their rush was pointless, for the moonlight fleet

Had passed with the dawn, and never again

Were those fairies allowed to cross the main?

But in the groves, when the sun was high,

The Indian looked on with a reverent gaze,

The HUMMING BIRDS, all previously unknown,

Glancing like ideas from flower to flower,

And it seems like the most beautiful things on Earth,

The bright lights and flowers had taken flight:

And Inspiration has quietly spoken in gentle rhythms,

That these are the fairies who danced that night,

And still hang around in the clothes they wore,

Content in our environment and even more blessed than before!

Father of Lakes! your waters bend,

Beyond the eagle's highest view,

When, sitting on his throne in heaven, he sees you send

Back to the sky, its world of blue.

Boundless and deep, the forests intertwine.

Their twilight shade covers your borders,

And looming cliffs, like giants, rise up

Their rough shapes along your shore.

Nor can the light canoes that glide

Across your chest like things of air,

Chase from your solitary and flat shore,

The silence settling in there.

Yet around this wasteland of trees and water,

Unseen and unheard, a spirit exists,

That, breathing over every rock and cave,

To everyone, it presents a wild and strange look.

The thunder-struck oak, that flings

Its gruesome arms stretched across the sky,

A sudden, shocking image brings

To the solitary traveler’s brightened gaze.

The twisted and intertwined branches that display

Their faint shapes in the shadowy forest,

Like wrestling serpents do, and throw

Amazing horrors through the glade.

The very sounds around this shore,

Have caught a weird and chattering tone,

For they have shouted the battle cry,

Till the wild chorus is theirs.

Wilderness wave, goodbye—

Goodbye, you rocks, you wild places, you forests!

Roll on, you element of blue,

And fill these terrible voids!

You have no story to share about man.

God is your theme. You echoing caves,

Whisper of Him, whose powerful plan,

Deems all your waves as a bubble!

It arrived with the gentle sun and rain of spring,

Mid bursting buds and blushing flowers;

It thrived on the same slender stem,

It drank the same clear morning dew with them.

The red hues of a summer morning

That golden one, did every adorn:

The gentle breeze that softly whispered, light and fleeting

To bloom or flourish, touched the leaf;

When the storm swept over the leaf,

The bud and bloom shook as well.

But its friends passed away,

And let the leaf decay by itself.

The soft spring breezes passed by:

The fruits and flowers of summer die.

The autumn winds blew over the hill,

And winter's breath came cold and brisk.

The leaf now gave way to the wind,

And on the fast-moving river was thrown.

Far, far it glided to the ocean,

And spun and swirled tiredly,

Till suddenly it sank to rest,

And slept in the ocean's embrace.

Thus life begins—its early hours,

Bright as the day flowers bloom—

Thus passes like the leaves away,

As withered and as lost as they are.

Beneath the parental roof we meet

In cheerful groups, and happily greet

The golden rays of love and light,

That morning light on the young eyes.

But soon we say goodbye, and one by one,

Like leaves and flowers, the group has disappeared.

One gentle spirit searches for the grave,

His forehead still glowing with the freshness of childhood:

Another walks the roads of fame,

And trades peace to gain a reputation.

Another still, tempts fate’s wave,

And pursuing wealth leads to a grave.

The last still holds the fragile thread:

Though friends are gone and happiness is lost—

Still dares the dark and anxious tide,

And grabs onto its power and pride—

Until suddenly the waters divide,

And like the leaf, he falls forever!

Twas morning, and, moving along its path,

Beside my path, a stream was flowing;

And along its banks, in cheerful humor,

A careless boy was wandering aimlessly.

Light as the breeze, they flew onward—

That cheerful youth and joyful wave,

And appeared to pursue each other’s path,

For a long time, they ran alongside each other.

And now the rippling water stopped,

And captured its ripples in a corner;

And a bubble danced on its surface,

Which earned the boy's admiring gaze.

He leaned over the edge of the river,

And looked at the bright vision;

For it seemed even more beautiful to him,

That in its heart his image burned bright.

With a pounding heart and shaking finger,

He bent down to grasp the incredible gem,

But, enchanted, it seemed to linger for a while,

Ere he made the daring move.

And still for a while, the shining toy,

Coquettish, seemed to avoid the trap,

And then the boy became even more eager,

And followed with a hasty demeanor.

Round and around, with careful eyes,

He chased it across the rippling river:

He timed it perfectly and grabbed his reward,

But in his hand, it shattered forever!

He sat by the river.

The tears streaming down his young cheek;

And long—his heart broken—

He ignored the fast river.

But tears will stop. And now the boy

Once again gazed out at the river:

'Twas still morning, and look! a toy,

Bright as the last one in the spotlight!

He got up—chased—the bubble caught;

It burst—he sighed—then others followed;

And as I left, he still pursued

New bubbles flowing down.

My path forward I continued to follow,

Till the high noon sun was over me.

And now, even though I'm different in appearance and feelings,

That youth and river appeared before me.

The stream flowed more proudly now,

Though irritated by the bow of many a ship;

The young man stepped into the strength of adulthood,

But worry was etched on his forehead.

Still on the stream, he kept his gaze,

And invited the bubbles to the shore,

And grabbed them as they passed by,

Though bursting as they did before.

Once more we separated. Yet again

We met—though now it was a dim evening:

Onward the waters rushed swiftly,

And disappeared over the edge of a waterfall.

Though fast and dark the raging wave,

The Bubble-Chaser was still there;

And, leaning over the dizzy edge,

Clutched at the flashy things in the air.

With staff in hand and shaky knees,

Upon the slippery edge he stood,

And watched with loving joy,

Each wreath of foam that floated on the flood.

"One more bubble!" I heard him call,

And watched his shaking fingers dance:

He grabbed, and down the crashing waterfall,

With the lost bubble, it's gone!

The rose was still a rose, you know—

But still a girl. What could I do?

You definitely wouldn't want me to leave,

When do lovely young women seem to flirt?

My heart was happy, and in the crowd

I played for an hour or two;

We danced along the flowery paths,

And did what young lovers do.

But sports must stop, and so I dreamed

To say goodbye to these, my magical flowers—

But oh, how difficult it seemed

To say goodbye in such beautiful surroundings!

And one beautiful woman with a humble demeanor

Gazed at me with her blue eyes;

I saw the tear drop forming there—

How could I say to her, Goodbye!

I willingly gave my hand and heart,

And we got married. What a bright time of youth!

How little did I think I would part

With my lovely bride, whose name was Truth!

But time went by, and Truth grew old,

And scolded, but in the kindest way:

I loved her, even though I went off track,

And nearly shattered her loyal heart.

And then I left her, crying—

These couldn't touch my hardened heart!

I wandered, and for tired years

I searched for happiness, but found no peace.

I looked for it—yet always searched in vain—

To find the peace and joy of youth:

At last, I turned back again,

And found them with my loyal Truth.

In the distant sea, there are many sprites,

Who sleeps during the day but wakes up at night.

In secret caves where monsters lurk,

When the sun is high, these ghosts sleep:

From the midday glance, they shrink in fear,

And hide among the bones of the horrifyingly dead.

Where the waves are calm, and the light is dim,

In the empty tube and the pale skull,

They huddle in fear or softly cry,

For the long night and the approaching storm.

But at twilight, when the shore is dim,

And bubbling wreaths float with the waves,

They soar on the lift of the refreshed breeze,

And flutter with the wind over the rolling seas.

At summer evening, as I sat on the cliff,

I made a mark that looked like a dark little boat,

That skimmed the saltwater, heading toward the rocky shore—

I heard a voice in the sound of the waves—

I saw a shape in the flashing spray,

And white arms signaled for me to come over.

Away over the tide we went together,

Through shade, mist, and stormy weather—

Away, away, over the lonely water,

On wings of thought, we soared like shadows,

Nor stopped amidst scenes of destruction and killing,

That came from the darkened waves to see.

The staggering ship to the storm we left,

The drifting corpse and the empty boat;

The terrible swimmer, totally hopeless—

We left them there on the sea to drift!

Through fog, darkness, and bad weather,

That night we went to the icy North Pole,

And there on the rocks we stood together,

And watched the ocean roll out before us.

No moonlight illuminated the hermit sea,

No cheering beacon lit up the shore,

No ship on the water, no light on the shore,

No sound in the ear except for the roar of the waves!

But the wave was bright, as if illuminated by pearls,

And scary things played on its surface;

Huge krakens circled in foamy swirls,

As if the depths were designed for their enjoyment,

And huge whales splashed through the clear water,

And up went the distant sparkling spray,

Till the darkened sky lit up with brightness,

And imagined in glory the wild display.^[A]

Haven't you seen the ocean in the moonlight?

Its wave like a woman's chest rising?

Have you seen the stars in the water's reflection,

As if its depths were their sacred home?

We encountered more stunning sights that night,

As we glided along in our spirit car,

For we crossed the South Sea, and, before dawn,

We passed Cape Horn on a shooting star.

In our journey, we bent down over a moonlit island,

Which the fairies had built in the lonely sea,

And the Surf Sprite's forehead was creased with a smile,

As we looked through the fog at their celebrations.

The waves that rolled to the rocky shore,

O'er shells of purple in playful abandon,

And the gentle breezes carried sweet scents,

From roses that grew in silence and shade.

In twisting caves, with shiny gems,

Soft music floated in from hidden harps,

And beautiful shapes floated on wings of light,

'In fragrant forests and green valleys.'

There were voices of joy to charm the heart,

And looks of beauty that are too good to be real—

For the Surf Sprite screamed, and the Fairy Isle,

By the wind of the storm was blown out of our sight.

Then the howling wind rushed over the waves,

And stomped on the sea in its furious advance;

From low-hanging clouds, the red lightning flashed,

And thunder rolled along their fiery route.

'Twas a scary night, but my shadowy guide

Had a joyful voice as we rode on the breeze,

For we saw a ship in the distance on the tide,

With a confident path and a fearless sail.

In the dark it arrived, like a bird sent by a storm,

But it encountered another ship on the water:

A shock—a shout—but we didn't hear anything else,

For they both went down to their ocean grave!

We paused on the foggy edge of the storm,

As a bright flash illuminated the depth,

And deep within it, there are many shapes

Was swinging down to its quiet rest.

Another flash! and they appeared to pause,

In small groups, on the ground of the tide:

The lover and loved, they were chest to chest,

The mother and baby were side by side.

The jumping waves cheered with excitement,

And glimmers of gold flowed with the water,

But the peace of those sleeping was completely untouched,

For everything was silent in their lonely home!

On and on, like midnight dreams, we went,

The storm above and the wave below,

And screaming figures rushed past in the wind,

Like demons rushing on missions of misery.

My spirit sank because up in the cloud,

A flag with stars flew on the whirlwind,

And I knew that the wave had to be the shroud.

Of the noble ship and her brave crew.

Her side had a band of white stripes,

And a dozen cannons from each battery glared,

But the lightning came in a burst of flames,^[B]

And the huge sails in its folds were wrapped up.

Vain, vain was the shout, that in battle chaos,

Had sounded like a death knell to the enemy,

For the breaking deck was lifted from the wreck,

And the sky was glowing with an intense light!

The ocean trembled against its muddy bottom,

As the growing sound reached the canopy,

And the broken fires like meteors fell

Their light over the choppy water.

A moment they sparkled, then disappeared in the foam,

And darkness spread over the beautiful light—

They guided the sailors back to their home,

And left them all sleeping quietly there!

The storm is quiet, and my sight is gone,

The Surf Sprite turned into a frothy circle,

The night has grown darker along the shore,

And I make my way across the dark heath.

But often I will go back to that cliff,

And look for her figure on the shimmering waves,

For I know she will arrive in her light boat,

And across the sea, we'll quickly go!

At evening, it rose in the empty clearing,

Where wildflowers bloomed in silence and shade;

Where, hidden from the harsh glare of noon,

They were subtly courted by the shimmering moon.

It rose—for the protective breezes had vanished,

And left the valley alone that night.

No sigh came from the leafy hill,

No sound came from the flowing stream;

The branches of the willow quietly cried,

And the aspen leaves rested quietly on that Sunday.

The valley dreamed, and the fairy lute

Of the whispering reed by the stream was silent.

The thin rush over the smooth stream,

As a marble column, standing tall and motionless,

And no light spirit on the smooth water,

A faint imprint of its footprint appeared.

The moonlight streamed down, but the shadows were deep.

Of the hanging flowers, were silent in sleep.

The pulse was still in that valley of flowers,

And the Spirit rose from its muddy grave.

It rose over the surface of a silver spring,

Where the morning mist stirred its snowy wing,

And dressed like the dew when it attracts the flowers.

It snuck off to their hidden spots.

With a lover's sigh and a gentle breeze,

It whispered happiness, but its purpose was death:

It touched the edge of a sleeping rose,

And left it there on its stem to cry:

It froze the drop on a lily's leaf,

And the trembling flower was bent in sadness.

O'er the gentian it breathed, and the withered flower

Fell, blackened and damaged in its lonely shelter;

It bent down to the asters all blooming around,

And kissed the buds while they rested on the ground.

They slept, but no tomorrow could revive their beauty,

And covered by moonlight, they lay in their grave.

The Frost Spirit left, like a soft glow of love,

In search of new beauty and growth that night

Its wing was illuminated by the moon's cold light,

And it flew silently over the hills.

It flew, yet its lingering fingers played,

With an exciting feel, under the shade of the maple;

It played with the leaves of the sturdy oak,

It sighed over the aspen and spoke softly.

To the bending sumac, that bent down to throw

Its patterned shade over a stream below.

It touched the leaves of the beech and breathed

Over the arching elm, covered in ivy:

It climbed to the ashes on the mountain's peak—

It flew to the meadow and hovered gently.

O'er leafy forest and fragrant dell,

It captivated them all with its silver magic.

Each spreading branch heard the whispered joy,

And turned its cheek to the brave guy's kiss—

Though giving, the leaves shook dismissively,

As if they were rejecting the gift they received.

Who imagined that the morning light would speak,

And show that kiss on the flushed cheek?

For in silence, the fairy's work continued—

And no gossiping owl of the scandal knew:

No watchdog woke from his light sleep,

To share the story with the attentive night.

But what is done in secret is shrouded in darkness,

Is often shown by tomorrow's sun;

And so the leaves were shown in the light,

With their bright colors what the night hid.

The delicate, sweet flowers that used to greet the morning,

Now slumped in their shelters, all withered and alone;

While the stronger trees shook their leaves in the wind—

Though telltale colors were cast over them.

The maple turned a deep red like a young woman's cheek,

And the oak revealed what it wouldn’t say.

The beech stood silent, but a purple shade

Over its glossy coat was a true witness.

The elm and the ivy with different colors,

Protesting their innocence, they looked up at the sky:

And the sumac turned a deeper red as I bent down to look,

It looked at the colors that flashed in the stream.

The delicate aspen became anxious and pale,

As the giggling forest seemed full of the story;

And the tall ash, even though it waved its branches,

With a strict attitude on the mountain's peak,

Bore a purple hue over its leafy fold,

And the secret party was happily shared!

Far, far across the deep is my island throne,

Where the seagull wanders and rules by itself;

Where nothing is seen but the sheer rock,

And nothing is heard except the sound of the ocean waves,

And the scream of birds when the storm is near,

And the sound of the wreck, and the terrified shout

Of drowning men, in their suffering.

I love to sit when the waters are calm,

And think about the depths of the smooth ocean,

Till I dream that I drift on a body at sea,

And sing about the feast prepared for me.

I love the thrill of sailing in a storm,

And blend my scream with the rough wind.

When the sky is dark and the waves are high,

When the storm approaches with its fury,

I love to ride on the wild wind—

To flap my wing over the doomed mast,

And sing to the crew a song of fear,

Of the reef and the waves that are waiting for them here.

When the storm is over and the party is finished,

I love sitting on the rocky shore,

And whisper to the ear of the fading breeze,

The stories that are kept quiet in the gloomy seas;

Of the ship that went down in the rough waves,

And left her fate to the seagull's lament:

Of the lover who sailed to meet his bride,

And his story revealed the hidden flow:

Of the father who ventured onto the untrustworthy sea,

And he never saw his child again:

Of the hidden things that the waves hide,

And the song of the sea bird can reveal everything.

I speak of the ship that has found its grave—

Her spars still float on the restless waves,

But down in the silent depths,

The brave and beautiful are asleep.

I watched as the storm quickly built up,

I heard the loud sound of the approaching explosion,

I watched the ship struggling in her terrifying battle,

As she glided on the wave, like something alive.

But the storm arrived, and her masts were bent,

Away, and away on the waters thrown.

I sat on the wind-swept deck,

And screamed in delight over the coming disaster:

I flew to the reef with a happy heart,

And guided the ship to her destination.

On the hidden rocks, she swooped down like a hawk,

And the sea poured through her broken planks:

O'er the whirling surge the wreck was flung,

And loud on the wind, wild voices rang out.

I looked at the scene—I saw despair

On the pale foreheads of a young couple.

The young woman sagged like a delicate flower,

When buffeted by the storm in its trembling shelter:

Her arms wrapped around her lover, she passionately embraced.

And stared at the sea with a confused mind.

He bent over the trembling girl and sheltered her.

From the splash of the sea and the rush of the storm;

But sorrow to the lover, and sorrow to the girl,

Whose hopes are placed on the treacherous deep!

For the sea has a king whose palaces shine,

In gleam and glow across the shimmering sea,

And he loves to come together in glory there,

The best things of the earth and sky.

In his lavish lounges adorned with coral,

Where gems are shining above and around,

He brings together his group of love and grace,

And he takes beauty into his cold embrace.

The winds and the waves are truly his messengers.

And the wanderer they chase is lost.

They scour the beach, they loot the shipwreck,

His stores to pile up, and his halls to decorate.

Oh! lady and lover, you are doomed to be their prey—

They’re coming! They’re coming! You’re being swept away!

You sink in the tide, but it cannot separate

The beloved ones who sleep in its depths forever!

Wild! Wild was the storm, and loud was its roar,

And the sights I looked over were strange:

I watched the baby die with its mother.

I listened to catch its farewell sigh;

And I laughed to see the dark clouds move.

With the sleeping child in their playful antics.

I saw a girl with white arms,

As the foam that sparkled on the waves' peak;

And the ripples danced with her shiny curls,

And her cheek was kissed by the swirling dance;

But her heart was numb to hope and fear,

For she didn't flinch as the shark approached.

I put my foot on his fair forehead.

Of a beautiful boy who floated there;

I looked into the eyes of the brave person who was drowning,

As they looked up through the clear wave;

I screamed over the bubbles that signaled death,

And bent down as the last one took their final breath.

I spread my wing, because the work was finished—

The storm quieted down, and the cheerful sun

Sent his glowing light over the gloomy seas—

And I share my story with the gentle breeze,

Of the hidden things that the waves hide,

And the song of the seagull can reveal everything!

As a shadow, he flew, but sorrow and wailing

Came up from his path, like the sound of the wind.

His quiver was full, but his arrows were falling quickly.

As the cold hail of winter when driven by the wind.

He smiled at every arrow as it shot off the string,

Though guided by fate, and lightning as its wing.

Unfailing and relentless, it rushed toward its target,

As the mandate of fate, definite and ominous.

The warrior's mail was split in two,—

The wall of the castle shook violently:

No shield could protect, no prayer could help,

And love's sacred place offered no protection.

A baby in the crib—its mother leaning over,—

The arrow has been shot, and that baby is gone!

At the altar of promises, a beautiful one bows,—

The gem on her finger—her promises in Heaven;

Unseen is the blow, but she sinks in the crowd,

And her beautiful wedding dress has turned into a funeral shroud!

On flew the Destroyer, over mountain and sea,—

And where there was life, there are the dead!

No valley is too deep, no island is too lonely,

But his shadow is there, and his victims are recognized.

He didn't stop, even though years went by slowly and painfully,

And Time's old wings drooped tired and low:

He didn't stop until Man was taken away from his birthplace,

And the sea and the land slept in solitude.

On a mountain he stood, because the struggle was over,—

A smile on his face for the victory achieved.

The city of millions—isolated island and cave,

The hermit's home—everywhere was a grave!

The last of his kind, where the first saw the light,

The monarch had met and won in battle:

Swift, swift was the horse, over Shinar's vast sand,

But faster than the arrow that shot from Death's hand!

O'er the mountain he looks like a storm about to break,

Triumphant and dark in the fullness of power;

And flashes of flame that dance around his head,

Speak of the fierce lightning that burns in his chest.

But a vision of wonder now appears before him;

The blue sky is overflowing with light,

And, facing the tyrant, a figure from the sky

Returns the intense gaze of his defiant eye.

A moment they pause—two powerful princes—

The Demon of Darkness—an Angel of Light!

Each looks at the other—no barrier in between—

And the trembling rocks pull back in shock from the scene!

The angel's sword waves freely in the air;

Death looks at his quiver—there's no arrow in it!

He falls apart like a crumbling pyramid;

And a vision of light in his dying eye appeared,

In glory shows the blessed souls of the fallen,—

And he realizes that his power was temporary and meaningless;

For, among the bright crowd, even the baby he killed,

And the bride at the altar, shining brightly for all to see!

Love, Hope, and Youth, all together—

Traveling during stormy weather,

Met a dark and somber tide,

Fast, deep, and wide.

'Twas named the River of Despair,—

And there were many wrecks floating there!

The kids paused, looking intense,

Debating how to get across the wave,

When suddenly, the curtain of the storm

Was severed, and the rainbow's shape

Stood against the breaking cloud—

Emblem of peace on trouble's veil!

Hope pointed to the signal flying,

And the three, their shoulders working,

O'er the stream the light arch threw—

A stunning rainbow bridge!

Now, laughing as they walked over,

They happily looked for the other side:

But soon the hills started to look grim,

And the bright sun set quietly.

Though their step was quick and nimble,

The rainbow disappeared beneath their feet,—

And down they went—the dizzy things!

But Hope took flight,—

And he carried the tight embrace of Love and Youth.

In victory to the other side.

But never would I think that humans would believe

On a rainbow bridge to cross a stream,

Unless bright, uplifting Hope is nearby,

And, filled with love and youth, they soar!

Two bubbles on a mountain stream,

Began their race one bright morning,

And illuminated by the red glow,

Went dancing through the bushes and thorns.

The stream was narrow, wild, and secluded,

But happily dashed over mound and rock,

And the bubbles shone even brighter,

As if they enjoyed the chaotic turbulence.

Each leaf, each flower, and each beam of sunlight,

Was shown on them as they flew,

And over their hearts seemed to play

In more beautiful shapes and new colors.

Thus they continued on, walking side by side,

They stayed in both sad and sunny weather,

And whether the tide is rough or smooth,

They shone the brightest when they were close together.

Nor did they think they could cut off,

That clouds could form, or morning fade;

They loved, and believed that love would last forever.

Would bind them in its gentle chain.

But soon the mountain slope was over,

And in new surroundings, the waters flowed,

And the two bubbles are no more.

With their first morning beauty shining.

They went their separate ways, and the sunlight

That they borrowed from each other's love;

That made their dancing chests cheerful,

While other bubbles around them were sad:

That light was dimmed, and in the wind

A shadow appeared, as if from Heaven;

Yet they continued to fly, trying to find

From conflict, the joy that love had provided.

They said goodbye, but they stayed in sight of each other,

And now the friends became rivals,

And if, by chance, the currents swept

Them close, they flashed with flame.

And it seemed to leap forward even more fiercely,

With the quick ripples toward the main;

And all the smaller bubbles around,

Each tried to bring along its followers.

They worked hard, and in that passionate struggle

Their morning friendship was forgotten.

And all the joys that make life better,

The rival bubbles did not know them.

The leaves, the flowers, the grassy shore,

Were all overlooked in the pursuit,

And on their chests now no longer

These types of beauty found their place.

But everything was dark and gloomy inside,

And envy lived where love was recognized,

And images of fear and wrongdoing

Were traced, where truth and pleasure were evident.

The clouds turned dark, and the tide rose high,

And darkness was spread over the waters,

But riding on the waves, almost

Each other now the bubbles swayed.

They rushed closer and closer,

In anger over the flowing river;

They met, and among the crushed waters,

The competing bubbles pop for good!

The sun has gone down behind the hills,

The shadows creep over the landscape;

A sleepy sound fills the woods,

And nature crosses her arms to rest:

Good night, good night.

The noisy blue jay has stopped his racket—

The loud robin doesn't sing anymore—

The crow, his home on the mountain,

Dreams amidst the forest's grumpy noise:

Good night, good night.

The sunlit cloud drifts softly and faintly;

The dew is falling gently and quietly;

The mist hangs lightly over the valley,

And silence hangs over that mill:

Goodnight.

The rose, so red in the light,

Bends on its stem, all without light now,

And next to it, the pure white lily

A sister shadow seems to bow:

Good night—good night.

The bat may fly silently on its wings—

The fox keeps his guilty watch—

The foreboding owl sings its mournful songs;

But love and innocence will rest:

Goodnight—goodnight!

Far in the West, where snow-covered mountains rise,

Like marble pillars under Heaven's lowered dome,

And the dreamy curtain of sunset covers the skies,

As if magic would create her home there—

O'er wood and wave, from haunts of men away—

From out of the valley, all trembling like a child,

A babbling stream comes as if to play—

Although the scene is brutal, lonely, and untamed.

Here at the base of the mountain, that newborn wave

'Among the leafy branches, it hides its humble origins—

Here learns the rock and cliff to be fearless—

And head to the Monarch River of the Earth!

Far, far away, its depths are deep and wide,

Bears the proud steamer on its fiery wing—

Along its banks, vibrant cities stand tall with pride,

And over its surface, they cast their beautiful image.

The Mississippi doesn't need a announcer now—

But here in this valley unnoticed by fame,

It flows with content—a bubble on its surface,

A leaf on its surface—Unnamed!

Strange contrasts here—for on the glacier's height,

The storm rages, and lightning flashes brightly—

Yet deep beneath, the wildflowers are solitary and delicate,

On thin stems, they rest in the still air.

Skyward, the racing eagles wildly soar.

Their loud cries echoed through the valley—

While hidden away, the bee with its wings folded,

Voluptuous sleep in his scented cell.

Around, the broken rocks are piled high into the sky,

With grim caves gaping wide in between,

As if the Titans had fought there,

And left their destruction marked on the landscape!

Yet over these eerie shapes, soft lichens wind,

And shy daisies droop, and calm flowers

A robe of beautiful colors, bind,

As if some wandering fairy claimed these gardens.

Fit cradle this—Majestic Stream, for you!

Nurtured at the base of the glacier—supported by storms—

The lightning flashing over your canopy,

And thunder rumbling around your crib—

The devoted Indian acknowledges your mysterious origin,

'In the midst of storm and clouds, and nature's wild appearance—

And wondering, you don't seem like a person of this earth,

But great Manitto's beautiful and favored child.

Aye—and the mind, inspired and taught,

Like nature's student feels a presence nearby,

Which makes the heart flutter at the thought

That the one who came from Teman has been here!^[B]

What rushing thoughts overwhelm the mind,

As we follow the Giant Stream from these heights,

And roam with its waters as they flow

From here, to their distant ocean home—

Marking its birth in this cold, harsh area,

Its victorious journey to that tropical shore,

The vast valley that it claims as its own,

With a thousand tribute rivers flowing!

No classic page has its story to tell;

No nymph or water nymph, having fun in its clearings;

No banks stained with heroic blood;

And still haunted by faint poetic shadows—

Its history remains carved in the everlasting stone,

Hoary with centuries; in waterfalls that sing

To the uninteresting ear of time; in the shock

Of plunging glaciers that wildly throw,

The forest stood like a group of spears, raised high:

In wooded valleys that stretch out of sight;

In vast open fields, beautiful and gentle;

In draping vines full of blue clusters;

And as the sunny south blows over us—

In orange groves that fill the warm air with fragrance,

And entice gentle summer with its sweet-smelling garlands,

Throughout the year, to live there.

These stories from the past reveal their whispered legends,

And creative imagination with its magical skill,

May create wild legends, just like the prophets of the past

Made gods and heroes come into existence.

Perchance some mystical mound may awaken the spell:

A broken skull—a spear—a clay vase

Within its heart, half the story can be told—

And everything else is just the product of imagination.

Alas! that merciless science these days,

To its tough test has finally brought,

The beloved shapes that everyone looks at so fondly

Upon us from the distant poetic past!

Else might these moonlit prairies show at dawn,

The dew-covered circle of the fairy dance—

These woodlands are full of playful fairies and satyrs—

These grottoes shine with sweet Echo's gaze.

Perchance a future Homer might have created

From the scattered wreckage of ages, fled,

Some long-lost Troy, where great heroes battled,

And made the earth resonate with their footsteps!

It might not be, because even though these scenes are beautiful,

As the legendary Arcadia—the spirit and fairy,

And all their gentle relatives, avoid the spotlight,

Where cars and boats make their rocky passage.

Perchance some of Cooper's magic talent might awaken

The sleeping legends of this powerful valley,

And wrap cherished memories around the lawn and lake,

Where the Warrior fought or the Lover shared his story:

And when the Red Man's figure has left these woods,

And the moonlight of memory shines over his story,

From their dark graves will rise heroic spirits,

And fill your imagination with romantic dreams.

Then, in the city's beautiful squares will rise

The sculpted column for the admiring gaze—

To mark the spot where some tough Black Hawk rests,

Whom ages ago, our proud ancestors defeated!

Dim shadows that appear at Fancy's call—

Yet deeper scenes unfold before the Patriot,

As fate's serious messenger raises the intimidating curtain,

And reveals the future to his focused gaze.

Oh! will that vision depict this beautiful valley

With millions of happy people spread across it—

Or horrifying scenes where battle pollutes the air

With a brother's blood spilled by another brother's weapon?

Away, you ghostly fears—the setting is beautiful,

Down the long stretch of countless years;

Bright harvests bring smiles, sweet meadows fill the air with their scent,

And a peaceful abundance spreads across the scene.

The village is filled with the cheerful laughter of workers,

The rowdy girls shout around the schoolhouse door,

The old man's voice, as he leans over his staff,

He boldly boasts in stories from the past:

Far tapering spires rise from busy cities,

The Sabbath bell gently rings in the air,

A sacred song reaches for the bending skies,

And earth and sky seem lovingly mixed together there!

Aye—and beyond, where the distance stretches out in blue,

Down the stretching valley of future time,

A stunning vision appears in view,

And fills the heart with a grand hope.

Majestic Stream! at the quiet start of Creation,

You were a witness to that glorious birth—

And your proud waters will still sweep the lawn

When peace takes over the world.

Here in this valley for a powerful empire created,

Perchance the glorious flag will be raised,

And violence, injustice, and destruction disappear,

Before its conquering march around the globe!

Two neighbors, living on a hill,

Had each— and side by side— a mill.

The one was Jones—a frugal guy—

Whose mill always turned in every breeze.

The storm and tempest wasted their strength

Their anger about it—around it went!

E'en when the summer breeze was light,

The spinning wings took to the air;

And that's how a saying in the village came about—

"As sure as Jones's mill, it runs."

Not the same with neighbor Smith's—close by;

Full half the time it wouldn’t work:

Save only when the wind was from the west,

Still as a statue, it stood completely still.

By every storm it was battered,

By every thunderstorm it was shattered;

Through many holes, the rain seeped through;

And whether it's good or bad, it wasn't right;

And so the saying finally emerged—

"Smith's mill is made for people who are in a hurry."

Now, who can figure out this riddle correctly?

Two mills are standing on a hill—

One bustling spin, no matter the weather,

The other idle weeks together!

Hey there, reader, pay attention,

And you will hear the simple truth;

And notice—this is where the lesson hides—

Smith believed in faith, but not in actions;

While Jones believed in both, and so,

By faith and practice, we made it happen!

Smith prayed and promptly submitted his bill,

Expecting Heaven to run his mill;

And complained a lot whenever he found

That wheels that aren't greased wouldn't turn.

Not so with Jones—because, while he was just as prayerful,

To keep things running smoothly, he was always careful,

And healed, with a quick stitch, each tear

That cruel time or storm sent;

And so, his faith was shown through his actions,

Good neighbor Jones was truly blessed by heaven.

My boat is on the rising tide,

Away, away from the waves and the shore;

A wanderer on the wave I ride,

Without a steering wheel or a paddle.

Blow as you please, you breezes, blow—

The compass doesn't mean anything to me now;

Flow as you like, you waves, flow,

If you will just take me out to sea.

Yon waving line of dusky blue,

Where worry and hard work weigh down the heart—

To you, I say a long goodbye,

And smile to feel that this is how we say goodbye.

There let the hardworking farmer sweat,

The greedy miser counts his profits,

The passionate scholar wastes his energy,

But I am leaping across the ocean!

How refreshing these breezes feel against my forehead—

How precious this freedom is to the soul;

Bright ocean, I'm with you now,

So let your golden waves roll!

But wait—what’s with this pounding in my head—

This heavy chest—these quick pulses?

Oh, take me back to that land again,

Because I'm really, really unwell!

In midnight dreams, the Wizard appeared,

And called me over—

With alluring dreams of wealth and fame,

He brightened my lonely path.

He led me over a dark heath,

And there a river flowed,

Whose bright and shiny waves below,

Hidden treasure, lay dormant.

The gentle waves softly lapped

Around the beloved store,

And swirling eddies brightly flashed

Above the yellow mineral.

I leaned over the calm, clear stream,

And dove into the gold to get,—

But oh! it disappeared with my dream—

And I got soaked!

O'er lonely heath and dark hill,

As I walked home shivering,

The mocking Wizard whispered sharply,

'You should have been content!'

Our altar is the fresh, damp ground—

Our temple, that blue throne of God:

No priestly ritual to tie our souls—

We kneel before the All-Powerful Mind.

Oh, You whose realm is as vast as the sky—

You won't reject the Gypsies' prayer:

Though banned and blocked by everyone else,

Be the guardian and guide of the outcast.

Poor fragments of a shattered nation—

Its story overwhelmed by Time's neglect—

We float unnoticed on the wave,

If God refuses to save the lost.

Yet even though we don't mention a Fatherland—

And even though we don't hold any family member's hand—

Though houseless, homeless wanderers we—

Oh, give us hope and heaven with you!

Peace to the dead! The forest weaves,

Around your couch, covered with leaves;

While shadows grow darker and silence deepens,

Bespeak the calm of your sleep.

Rest, traveler, here! Your journey's over,

Life's tired worries you ignore now;

Time's sun has set in the west—

Your work is finished—take a break, Traveler, take a break!

Rest until morning; wait.

Here, at Eternity's ominous gate,

Safe in the care of the earth,

And the reliable promises of God.

Dark is your home—yet around the tomb,

Tokens of hope—sweet flowers bloom;

And treasured memories, gentle and precious,

Blessed as their fragrance, stay here!

We talk, but you're silent! How terrifying

This deep, serious silence of the Dead!

The whispers of the Grave, severe,

The attentive soul is the only one that can truly hear!

Another day, his song is cheerful,

For a nearby bird is listening—

O you who are sad, come borrow, borrow,

A lesson from Robin here!

Here is the endless ocean—over there is the sky,

Arched wide and blue—

Telling of God and heaven—how deep, how high,

So glorious and true!

Upon the wave, there’s a sweet anthem,

Whispered with fear and love,

Sending a serious tribute to the feet

Of Him who rules above.

God of the waters! Nature has her King!

The sea knows your power;

At your command, the storm spreads its wings,

Or folds it to rest.

And when the whirlwind has gone rushing by,

Obedient to your will,

What respect rests on the wave and sky,

Humbled, calm, and still!

Oh! let my soul, like this obedient sea,

With peace in its heart,

By the deep influence of your Spirit be

Sacred and quiet to rest.

And as the cheerful sun brightens the morning,

Wishing the storm would leave,

So may the Sun of Righteousness shine bright,

With love, my broken heart.

The shore has blended with the distant skies,

O'er the bend of the crested seas,

And the tilted ship rushes through her path,

On the flow of the refreshed breeze.

Swift be its flight! for a dying guest

It carries across the waves,

And she lovingly sighs in her home in the West

To find a comfy pillow.

There, over the tide, her family sleeps,

And she would sleep next to them—

It might not be! because the sea is deep,

And the waves—the waves separate them!

It might not be! The excitement is gone,

That lit up her cheek—

'Twas the fading light before the sun sets.—

Life's final and beautiful chapter.

'Tis gone, and a dew is over her now—

The dew of the endless evening—

No tomorrow will shine on that pale forehead,

For the spirit has taken its leave.

The ship slows down, and the funeral ceremony,

O'er the lovely form is said,

And the tough guy's cheek is shining with tears,

As he lays down the gentle dead.

The body sinks down, alone—alone,

To its gloomy and bleak grave,

And the soul has taken flight on a lightened wing,

To the world beyond the wave.

'Tis a scary thing to sleep in the sea

Alone in a quiet bed—

'Tis a scary thing on the endless ocean

To walk in the spirit world!

In days gone by, when the world was still new,

And everything around was beautiful to see—

When spring or summer dominated the joyful moments,

And golden fruit hung down among the blooming flowers;

When you happen to wander through the woods,

The rosy-footed dryad took the lead,—

Or if, next to a mountain stream, your path,

You ever catch a naiad in her bath:

'It was on that golden day that Damon wandered off.

Musing alone in a Greek grove.

Retired the scene, yet in the morning light,

Athens sparkled beautifully in view.

'Twas far away, yet painted on the skies,

It looked like a marble cloud filled with vibrant colors,

Where the pink morning, with its fading light,

Loved on the sapphire pediments to play.

But why did Damon pay attention to the distant scene?

For he was young, and everything around was green:

A loud stream was rushing through the valley,

And the sound of laughter echoed in his ear:

Along his path, the bending wildflowers grew,

And charmed the very breezes as they flew.

Then why did young Damon, paying no attention to anything around him,

Seemed caught in some spell of far-off dreams,

I can't say—but his gaze became dreamy,

And all his thoughts were in a confusing fog.

A while he walked casually—then under a tree,

He sat down, and there a daydream

Came over his spirit like a spell, and bright,

A truth-like vision appeared before him.

Around on every side, with glowing wings,

A circling band, as if from Jupiter's realms,

All courting came, and sought with clever tactics,

To capture the heart of the young dreamer.

One offered wealth—another talked about fame,

And held a wreath to wrap around his name.

One brought the pallet and the magic brush,

By which creative artistry makes nature shy,

To see her rival—and the clever boy,

His story told—the all-consuming joy

His talent could show, but the trickster kept it hidden well.

The sharp thorns that grow hidden,

Along the artist's journey—the financial struggles, the hardships

Of studying and the exhausting waste of life—

All of these, the downside of his clever story,

The small artist covered with a veil.

Young Damon listened, and his heart raced—

But now a clever archer caught his attention—

And leaning in close, he whispered in his ear,

A bright story, so melodic and cherished,

That Damon promised, like many a breathless young man,

To love, everlasting loyalty and honesty!

But when the whisper from his heart broke,

A terrifying image spoke to his soul:

With a furrowed brow and muscular arm, he stood,

Holding a glass, as if ready to make a point,

He waited just a moment for the sand,

To drive the lazy Dreamer out of the land!

Young Damon began, and his dream was gone,

But to his soul, the apparent vision carried

A serious meaning that he couldn't ignore—

And maybe Young people can learn from our story,

That while the enticing passions call out and sigh,

TIME, with his sharp scythe, is standing by, listening.

You ask the minstrel to play the lute,

And wake up once again to a calming sound—

Alas! its strings, out of tune, are silent,

Or just repeat the moans back and forth.

The flowers surrounding it are dead,

And those who put them there have gone.

The spring that made them blossom is gone,

And winter's frost is laid over them.

Poor lute! forgotten among struggle and worry,

I would love to try your strings once more,—

Perchance some lingering tone is there—

Some beloved old melody.

If flowers that no longer bloom are here,

Their scents still linger around us—

And even though those we love are lost, they are still precious.

Their memories might awaken the string.

I strike—but look, the usual thrill,

Of joy in sorrowing rhythm fades:

Alas! the minstrel's hand is cold,

And the sad lute, in reply, sighs.

It's always like this—our life begins,

In Eden, all the fruit seems sweet—

"We taste and understand, along with our mistakes,

Creeps to the heart and ruins the deception.

In youth, the sun only brings light—

No shade then falls on the view—

But when the shining morning has passed,

We see the shadows—not the light.

I used to find music everywhere—

The whistle from the willow rang—

The string, positioned in the window, there,

Sweet deals came my way.

But now, this delicate lute is silent—

Or answers only with sighs and cries,

Echoing the voices of those who have escaped,

Passing before me, faint and pale!

Yet angelic figures are in that group,

And one upon the calm air throws,

Of woven melody, a tune,

Down trembling from her heaven-bent wings.

'Tis past—that Speaking Form is gone—

But memory's happy and attentive ear,

Shall often remember that choral tone,

To cherish love and poetry so much.

And far away in the future,

Shall blend Piety and Love

Find a warm expression in the rhyme,

Bequeathed to the earth by Someone above.

Poor lute!—your vibrant pulse is gone,—

Yet I forgive all your silence,

That’s your last thrill.

Would make her gentle virtues come alive!

Friend from my early days, we meet again!

Once again, I stand beneath your old branches,

And listen once more to the rustling music flow,

Along your leaves, as whispering spirits breathe.

Full many days of sunshine and storms,

Since we last said goodbye, both of us have definitely experienced a lot;

Your leaves are thin, your shape is worn out,—

And all my treasured dreams have disappeared!

How beautiful, how short, those sunny hours

Departed now, when life was just beginning—

When Fancy knew no place that wasn't decorated with flowers,

And expectation soared on the wings of imagination!

Here, on the riverbank, next to this murmuring stream,

Which still runs by just as cheerfully as before,

Marking its currents, I often dreamed

Of things off, on some distant fairy shore.

Then every swirling leaf and bubbling sphere,

That floated by was full of brilliant ideas;

Each connected by love had music at its beck and call,

And exciting echoes filled my heart.

The bird that sang in this twisted oak,

The waves that played in its leafy shade,

The soft whispers from its branches that snapped,

Their joyful tribute to my spirit was paid.

No ghost appeared to warn of coming trouble,

No grim warning ruined my prophetic dreams—

My heart clear like the flowing stream,

My thoughts are all free and sparkling in its light.

Here is the grassy hill I used to look for

At summer noon, under the broad shade,

And watch the flowers that bowed with bright cheeks,

To meet the playful waves as they frolicked.

Here is the place that memory's magical lens

Hath often brought, dressed in lasting green,

Making this oak, this stream, this swaying grass—

A simple group—nature's most beautiful scene.

And as I walked along the Rhône or Rhine,

Or another beloved stream, in later days,

With jealous love, this stream would sparkle,

Full in my heart, and claim the praise that I'm used to.

And oh! how often overwhelmed by sorrow,

By overwhelming care, or twisted by harsh spite,

By friends who betrayed me, or disappointment that ripped me apart,

My tired heart, completely worn out and messed up—

Has longed to escape the pointless conflict far away,

And find a peaceful resting place beneath this oak,

Where the harsh sound of the world clashes,

Yields to the sound of the gentle wave!

And now I stand next to this stream again;

Again I hear the silver ripples flow—

I notice the whispers drifting over the waves,

And the light bubbles shake as they move.

But oh! the magic spell that lingered here,

In the golden days of my childhood, my heart was full of joy,

With the bright waves that rippled so clearly then,

Is lost in the ocean's dull forgetfulness.

Gone are the visions of that glorious time—

Gone are the fleeting birds I loved so much,

Nor will they ring their silver chime again,

From the deep darkness of night where they live!

And if by chance some passing memories take,

Like distant echoes to my dreaming ear,

Away, out of reach, the deceptive visions spin,

As ghosts take flight on the wings of fear.

Alas! the glorious sun, which then was high,

Touching everything ordinary with a soft, warm glow,

Is ominously cast out from the gloomy sky—

And life's boring, straight path goes on in the dark.

Yes—I have changed—and this gray, twisted body,

Its leaves all blown away by the fierce wind,

Is just an image of my heart;—the storm—

The storm of life does make us who we are in the end!

Farewell, old oak! I leave you to the wind,

And go to fight against the rubbing tide—

Soon your body will return to dust,

And I would sleep beside your crumbling limbs.

Thy memory will fade; your protective shade,

Will no longer weave its fabric over the ground;

And all your leaves, not gathered in the clearing,

Shall be trampled by the careless passage of time.

My treasured dreams, like shadows and like leaves,

Name, fame, and fortune—each will fade away;

And all that daydreaming about building castles,

Shall sleep, mindlessly, like the sleepy clay.

But from your root, another tree will bloom—

With living leaves, its swaying branches will soar;

And the winged spirit—bursting out of the tomb,—

Oh, will it come to light beyond these skies?

Spring hasn't spread her flowers yet,