of

BY

EDINBURGH.
W. P. NIMMO, HAW & MITCHELL

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co.
at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

I feel the vastness of life.
All my small goals fade away, and I stretch
My longing spirit toward the Infinite.

As when a great forest, with its green leaves
That have enclosed it, makes it feel like a hideaway
For lovers' secrets or for kids' games,
Sheds all its thick foliage to the wind,
And allows the viewer to see it, endless,
And full of winding paths of mysteries:
So now with a life that stretches out ahead,
And touches the unknown Beyond.

I see the stars above me, world upon world:
I hear the terrifying language of all Space;
I feel the distant waves of vast oceans,
That conceal the secrets of the Universe
In their timeless depths; and I know
That I am just a tiny part of the Whole.

In the excitement of life and living,
   I raise my heart and celebrate,
And I thank the great Creator for providing
   A voice for my joy within.
In the warmth of the beautiful weather,
   In the fragrant, inviting air,
My worries feel as light as a feather—
   They’re easy to carry.

In the power and glory of strength,
   In the pride and enjoyment of wealth
(Who can challenge my gifts
   Of talent, youth, and good health?),
I can laugh at the world and its wise people—
   I am above the serious seers,
For the wisest throughout all time
   Is the one who knows how to be happy.

I lift my eyes to Apollo,
   The god of beautiful days,
And my spirit flies off like a swallow,
   And gets lost in his light.
Are you feeling down and troubled? I ask you
   To step out of the shadows of conflict--
Come into the sun while I show you
   The secret of life.

Step away from the world—rise above it—
Beyond its crosses and graves,
Even though the green earth is beautiful and I cherish it,
We should appreciate it as masters, not as slaves.
Rise to a place where the dust never settles—
Only the fragrance of flowers fills the air—
And your life will be filled with joyful surprises
Of wonderful moments.
Rise to where the rare golden wine is
That Apollo creates in front of me,
And your life will be as happy as mine,
And just as full of joy.

When the pleasures of this world were enough for my soul,
  Before my heart hit the depths of pain,
  I turned to Reason to guide my thoughts,
  And dismissed the old tale of Christ.

But when my feet walked over scorching deserts,
  And my whole life felt empty with grief,
  With bleeding hands I held onto the cross,
And shouted, "Humans need a God who suffers!"

Life and I are in a relationship, wandering
Arm in arm together:
Often like two kids playing outside,
Full of joy and music,

Life gathers all the blooming hours
Growing along the way;
It binds them on my head like flowers,
Calls me Queen of May.

Then again, when it's rainy outside,
   We sit face to face,
Planning the work we'll do together
   In the years to come.

Sometimes life denies me happiness,
And I frown or sulk;
But we make up with kisses
Before the day is over.

Woman-like, I sometimes mourn for him,
   Test his trust and belief,
Saying I might one day leave him
   For his rival, Death.

Then he always becomes more passionate,         Caring, and more genuine; Loves even more for feeling jealous,         Just like all lovers do.

Though I swear by the stars above him,
   And by worlds beyond,
That I love him—love him—love him;
   Though my heart is fond;

Though my lover gives me,
   Kisses with every breath—
I will eventually leave him,
   And pledge my loyalty to Death.

There’s nothing, I believe, that a person can't accomplish
  If they don't hesitate, back down, or avoid the task,
  And most importantly, if they have _faith_.

Believe in himself and the strength behind
  That supports like a helper on two fronts,
  With hope for the spirit and healing for the wounds,
  Ready to empower the arm or the mind.

When the motivation is right and the determination is strong
  There are no limits to what people can do;
For that powerful force behind us drives forward
  And carries us along during tough times.

And no matter how high you want to reach,
  Even if it’s never been stepped on by anyone,
  And no matter how difficult--I say you _can_,
If you’re patient and make the most of your time.

In the bright morning of his life,
   When his innocent heart was in his chest,
   Breathing heavily, with all that restless energy
To dive into the challenges of the world

That fills young hearts with crazy longing,
   He saw a sunset. Red and gold
   The blazing waves surged and rolled,
And tossed their flames high into the sky.

He looked. And as he looked, the sight
   Sent from his soul through his chest and mind
   Such intense joy, it hurt like pain.
His heart felt like it was bursting with delight.

So close to the Unknown felt, so near
He could almost touch it with his hands
He felt his deepest self grow,
Like sunlight makes a rose bloom.

One day he heard a song—
A human voice, with bird-like notes.
He paused, and small waves of joy
flowed gently through his veins.

And in his heart the whole day long,
   As in a temple shrouded and dim,
   He carried with him
The beauty of that singer's song.

And then? But why talk about what happened next?
   His smoldering heart burst into flames--
   He had his one ultimate desire,
And dove into the world of people.

For years, Queen Folly ruled.
With earthly pleasures,
She satisfied his desires and clouded his thoughts,
Until, feeling embarrassed and fulfilled, he turned away.

He sought his childhood home.
That hour should have been truly triumphant,
since he left as an unknown young man,
and returned crowned with wealth and power.

The clouds turned the day into a beautiful scene;
He noticed the beauty of the sky
With an indifferent heart and a blank stare;
He just realized the West was glowing red.

Then suddenly a lively young voice
Rose, like a bird, from some hidden spot,
He didn't even turn his head—
It just seemed to him like a sound.

He walked the old paths back and forth.
Their colorful leaves swirled in the autumn winds—
How boring they were—how boring the world—
Boring even in the bustling town.

Oh! The worst of punishments, that brings
   A dulling of all finer senses,
   A loss of feelings, sharp and intense,
And makes us numb to greater things.

O! the worst punishment, so certain,
   Quick to follow after indulgent pleasures,
   That we can no longer see beautiful sights,
Or hear like those who are good and pure.

Oh! a shape more monstrous and terrifying
   Than what Vengeance instills in taught minds,
   This inevitable doom that dulls and blinds,
And extinguishes the most sacred sentiments.

In the spring of the year, when the birds were nesting,
   When the green was appearing on trees and bushes,
And the softest light of all lights was illuminating
   The world from the highest point to the farthest edge,
My soul felt heavy and longed for company!
   I yearned for the time of sunshine and flowers,
And I said, "In the summer and only then
   Exists sweet happiness and peaceful hours."

With bees and birds as her attendants
Princess Summer arrived in green robes.
And the Day King smiled down at her
And courted her, won her over, and made her queen.
From their union and true love's promises,
Beautiful roses bloomed day after day,
And wandered in gardens and hid in hedges
Like royal children playing around.

My restless soul for a little while
Indulged in the joy of warmth and beauty,
And then, like a traitor,
Became filled with rebellion and sadness.
And I said, "I’m tired of summer's pleasures,
Of warmth and beauty, and nothing else.
The complete fulfillment my sad soul longs for
That beautiful Fall-time has in store!"

But now when the colors are almost blinding,
   Burning and blending on bushes and trees,
And the rarest fruits are mine for the picking,
   And the year is as ripe as it can be,
My soul complains in the same old way;
   Crying out in my troubled heart
Is the same old longing, the same old desire.
   Oh where is the treasure that people call rest?

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss composed,
Overflowing with melody and rhythm
From the very first to the last note.
Give me his "Artist's Life!"

It sends a rush through me,
Excites me and fills me with a restless feeling,
And all that is most beautiful and most heartbreaking mixes
Together inside me.

It reminds me of that night in the dim arcade,
   In love's sweet morning and life's best time,
When the big brass band played and played,
   And made our thoughts rhyme.

It brings back that Winter of wild fun,
Of racing hearts and dancing feet,
And those lazy, moonlit Summer nights
When we listened to the band in the street.

It brings back joy and happiness and light,
   It brings back passion and hurt and struggle,
And of all the waltzes I know,
   Give me the "Artist's Life."

For it’s so full of the good old days—
So full of the good old friends I knew.
And in its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme,
I'm always discovering—YOU.

I don’t think I’ve ever had such a sad hour,
   Dear friend, as I did at the church tonight.
The building from the basement to the tower
   Was filled with a brilliant display of colored light.
Through the wide aisles, the fashionable crowd was flowing,
   Each one dressed like a guest invited by a king.
"Here, I will bring my sorrow and my longing,"
   I said, "and here I will find peace."

I heard the powerful voice of the heavenly organ,
   It felt like it gave me endless comfort.
I cried. Strange eyes watched in polite curiosity.
   I wiped my tears: their gaze desecrated my sadness.
Wrapped in expensive furs, silks, and laces,
   Were hearts that didn't belong to me.
I couldn't find, in all those proud, cold faces,
   A single thought of understanding.

I watched them bowing and kneeling with reverence,
   Heard their responses flow like sweet water
But only the glorious organ's sacred sound
   Felt like it was coming from a full and passionate soul.
I listened to the man of the cloth,
   He talked about beliefs, claiming his was the best;
About humanity's sins and Adam's fall,
   But nothing brought me peace:

Nothing that helped me deal with the daily grind
Of spirit with flesh, heart with a racing mind;
Nothing to reveal the purpose of this blinding
And at times overpowering feeling of pain.
And then, dear friend, I thought of you, so humble,
So unpretentious, and so gently kind,
And there it was! A peace, a calm so serene and holy,
Settled over my mind.

Ah, my friend! One true heart, loving and gentle,
   That understands our struggles and our needs,
Brings us closer to God than all the grandeur
   And show of false worship and empty beliefs.
One look from your dear eyes, so full of emotion,
   Brings me nearer to the Infinite
Than all those worldly people kneeling
   In a blaze of dazzling light.

Don't think that knowledge belongs to you alone;
Even God's incredible secret, Death,
We each, with our last breath,
Take hold of in wonder and make it our own;
The hidden treasures of the earth are revealed,
Despite her careful concealment; and the air
Unveils its mysterious marvels in frustration
To add to the vast collection of known things.
The sea can complain and rage in vain;
It can’t hide from the sharp eyes of the world
The fascinating wonders of its coral caves.
And so, no matter your caution or your tears,
The probing hands of time
Will drag YOUR secret into the light.

Let mine not be the saddest fate of all
To live beyond my greater self; to see
My abilities fading, like the tree
Stands bare and helpless while its green leaves fall.
Let me hear instead the urgent call,
Which everyone fears, in my joyful morning time,
And meet death before I’ve reached my prime,
Or tasted the strong mixture of life’s bitterness.
The lightning’s strike or the fierce storm’s blast
That brings the green tree down to earth today
Is kinder than the calm that lets it last,
An unhappy witness to its own decay.
May no one ever look at me and say,
"She lives, but all her usefulness is past."

There’s no chance, no destiny, no fate,
That can bypass, stop, or control
The strong determination of a resolute person.
Talent doesn't matter; willpower is key;
Everything eventually yields to it.
What obstacle can hold back the powerful force
Of a river heading toward the sea,
Or make the rising sun delay?

Every deserving person must earn what they deserve. Let the fool talk about luck. The truly fortunate Is the one whose sincere purpose never wavers, Whose smallest action or inaction serves The one great goal. Even Death pauses, And sometimes waits an hour for such determination.

Falling on the frozen world last night
I heard the slow rhythm of the Winter rain--
Poor foolish drops, dripping down for nothing;
The ice-covered Earth just mocked their weak power,
Much better was the stillness of white
And uncomplaining snow--which shows no signs,
But coldly smiles when compassionate moonbeams shine--
Hiding its sorrow from all human sight.
A long time ago, in blurred and heavy years,
I learned the pointlessness of vocal despair.
Though relentless Fate strikes her most skillful blow,
   I no longer waste the bitterness of my tears,
   But feed my pride on its bitterness, while
I look straight into the world's bold eyes, and smile.

Today I was so tired and I lay
   In that wonderful state of being half-awake,
When a baby, playing with his nurse,
   Cried out for "mommy," leaving all his toys behind.

I was so tired and needed to rest,
   And signaled to the nurse to take him out of the room.
Then, suddenly, I got up and held him to my chest,
   And kissed his sad mouth and blooming cheeks.

For as quickly as lightning, the thought hit me,
   With a racing heart and a blur of tears,
Of the inevitable days that are to come,
   If my beautiful darling reaches adulthood;

Days when he won't call for "mom," when
   The world, with many pleasures and bright joys,
Will tempt him out into the crowds of people
   And I will lose my special place with my son;

When other homes and loves bring joy,
   When younger smiles and voices feel the sweetest.
And so I held him close to my heart tonight,
   Forgetting all my need for peace and rest.

In a place beyond what we can see or imagine,
   In a place without disease or wrong,
No darkness, no graveyards, and no sadness,
   There exists a vast ocean of song.
And its waves, oh, those waves unseen
   By anyone except gods and their kind,
Are not blue, are not green, but golden,
   Like a mix of moonlight and sunlight.

It was told to me that their waters
   Were formed from the collected tears
That were shed by the sons and daughters
   Of long-gone times and places.
Like the white sands of heaven, the spray is
   That falls all day long,
And whoever it touches right away is
   Filled with the joy of song.

Up, up to the clouds where their gray
Crowns disappear into the sky,
The stunning mountains of glory
Rise on each side of the ocean of song.
Here, the day is a dazzling display of light—
Of God's light filled with beauty.
Here, night isn't really night, but twilight,
All around, embracing, and sweet.

Colorful birds from everywhere,
   That sing joyfully throughout summer,
Are silent, until they gather here in groups
   And bathe in the ocean of melody.
It’s here that the four winds of heaven,
   The winds that sing and celebrate,
It’s here they first arrived and were granted
   The secret of sound and a voice.

Far down among beautiful beeches,
   By night and by glorious day,
The crowd of the talented ones gathers,
   Their foreheads glistening with the spray,
And a few of the sons and daughters
   Of this kingdom, hidden from view,
Go down into the amazing waters,
   And bathe in those waves of light.

And their souls are always like fountains,
   And fluid and clear and strong,
High above the mountain peaks
   Flow the sweet waves of song.
No drought can ever dry them up.
   Whoever has swum in that sea,
All dangers, all deaths, they defy,
   And are happier than the gods, filled with joy.

In our bright youth when the earth feels like
A summer paradise of joyful laughter,
When spirits are high and hearts are free,
And no shadow appears in view,
We don't realize it, but hidden
Somewhere underneath the evening sky
Is a garden we all need to visit—
The garden of Gethsemane.

With happy strides we go our separate ways,
Love gives a glow to our days;
Light sorrows drift away like distant clouds,
We laugh, claiming how strong we are.
We rush ahead; and as we hurry,
We draw near to the edge of sorrow
That awaits for you, and waits for me—
Forever awaits Gethsemane.

Down dark alleys, across unfamiliar streams,
Bridged by our shattered dreams;
Behind the hazy layers of time,
Beyond the vast salt source of tears,
The garden is there. Try as you might,
You can't avoid it on your journey;
All paths that have been or will be,
Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.

All those who travel, sooner or later,
Must enter the garden's gate;
Must kneel alone in the darkness,
And struggle with some intense despair.
God have mercy on those who can’t say,
"Not my will but Yours"; who only pray
"Let this cup pass," and can't see
The PURPOSE in Gethsemane.

I don’t know why, but my eyes
   See beauty where others see despair.
They find a rainbow, a sunrise,
   Where others only see darkness.

Men call me an enthusiast,
   And say I look through a golden haze:
Because wherever I direct my gaze,
   I see something that deserves praise.

I say, "Look at those beautiful eyes—
   That rosy cheek with a flower-like beauty."
They respond with playful surprise:
   "We thought it was just an ordinary face."

I say, "Have you ever seen something so beautiful?
   I feel like I'm walking in the gardens of Eden."
They reply, with a tone of sympathy,
   "The weeds are suffocating the flowers."

I don't know why, but God gave
   Me a deeper vision.
Whatever I focus on
   I see infinite beauty;

That hidden, underlying part
   That everything has of the Divine.
So let the boring crowd mock and laugh—
   Their eyes are closed, they can’t see.

I have to follow your lead? Your approach is definitely a solid one. But sometimes, there are actually two direct paths to a place—one goes over the hill, and the other goes under it.

You’re walking the safe and familiar path,
   That the cautious choose every time;
And you see me as reckless and hasty today,
   Just because I want to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine.
   We’re not exactly the same,
Forced to follow a specific line,
   Or else be scattered everywhere.

It would be a pretty boring world, I think, my friend,
   If we all went the same way;
But our paths will definitely meet at the end,
   Even if they lead us in different directions today.

You enjoy the shade, and I enjoy the sun;
   You prefer a steady pace,
I like to join the crowd and run,
   And then relax after the race.

I enjoy risk, chaos, and conflict,
   You prefer a calm moment;
I thrive on the excitement and energy of life,
   You like its soothing rhythm.

You like buttercups, fresh with dew,
   And crocuses, set in the snow;
I like roses, grown in the warmth,
   And the bright glow of red carnations.

I have to live my life, not yours, my friend,
Because that’s how it’s meant to be;
We need to follow our own paths to the end,
But I believe we’ll meet up -- in the city.

Over the banister leans a face,
   Boldly sweet and enchanting.
Someone stands with effortless grace
   And watches the scene, smiling.

The light shines faintly in the hall below,
Nobody notices her standing,
Wishing goodnight once more, soft and low,
Halfway up to the landing.

Nobody only the eyes of brown,
Tender and full of meaning,
That smile on the prettiest face in town,
Over the banisters leaning.

Tired and sleepy, with a heavy head,
   I wonder why she stays;
Now that all the good nights are said,
   Why is someone holding her hand?

He takes her hand and pulls her close,
   Suddenly feeling more confident,
Until her loose brown hair falls
   Like a cloak over his shoulder.

Over the banisters, soft hands, fair,
   Brush his cheeks like a feather,
And bright brown locks and dark hair
   Meet and blend together.

There’s a question asked, there’s a quick touch,
   She has flown like a bird from the hallway,
But over the railing comes a “Yes,”
   That will brighten his world forever.

Though the world is filled with gods,
Unnamed gods, and countless gods,
No god has ever been known
Who didn’t have a follower.
So I dedicate to mine,
Here in verse, my temple-shrine.

It's not Ares, mighty Mars,
Who brings victory in wars.
It's not Morpheus, who watches
Over us while we sleep,
It's not Venus, whose role
Is to bring us love and beauty;
Hail to these, and others, after
Momus, joyful god of laughter.

Quirinus would protect my health,
Plutus would guarantee my wealth;
Mercury takes care of trade,
Hera looks out for youth and maid.
All are generous, I recognize their value,
After Momus, the god of fun.

Though Apollo, out of spite,
Hides away his face of light,
Though Minerva looks askance,
Deigning me no smiling glance,
Kings and queens may envy me
While I claim the god of joy.

Wisdom tires you out, Love takes flight--
Wealth creates burdens, Pleasure hurts,
Glory is just a thorny crown--
So all the gifts the gods give
Come with their own pains and troubles;
Except for Momus, the god of laughter.
He alone brings lasting joy.
Hail to Momus, joyful guy.

It's not the inexperienced soldier who's new to danger
  Who is afraid to jump into battle.
Amid the sound of drums and the boom of cannons,
  He seeks adventure and doesn't think about life.

But the scarred veteran knows the cost of glory,
  He doesn't seek out the battle or the fight.
He has no desire to relive that gruesome
  And most dramatic act, in the dark drama of war.

He who has always been a stranger to love
  Unafraid may stay under your charm.
My heart has experienced the battles and their risks.
  It seeks no repetition—so goodbye.

I toss my past aside like an old coat
Worn out at the seams and no longer in style.
I've outgrown it. Why should I cry
And focus on its beauty and its vibrant colors
Of exotic splendor, or complain
That I have to let it go? I can create
With the threads of future years
A fabric that's much stronger. Though it may be
Subdued in its mix of colors,
Where dark shades blend, the shine
Of golden threads will run through it,
While an everlasting glow shines on top,
And adorned with gems made from crystallized tears,
My new coat will be richer than the old one.

We will be what we can be. Don't say,
   "It could have been, if not this or that."
No fate can stop us from our chosen path;
      Only He who IS could.

We will do what we can do. Don’t fantasize
Chance leaves a hero, all unrecognized to mourn.
I believe all people are mostly who they appear;
He is, who could succeed.

We will climb where we can. Don't tell me
   About the storms that prevented you from reaching the top.
What eagle ever failed to reach its target?
      Those who can always climb.

I don’t like the phrase, "It might have been!"
   It has no strength, and twists life's greatest truths
Because I believe we have, and strive, and achieve,
      Regardless of what we deserve.

Standing alone in the beautiful land of poetry,
A temple dedicated to the muses;
A flawless creation of masterful art,
Crafted by artists and envisioned by genius,
Out of reach for the novice hand,
Beyond the understanding of the untrained heart,
Like a fine sculpture in a marketplace,
Only a select few will truly appreciate.
A masterpiece worked on with great care,
Yet the oblivious, careless crowd walks past,
A simple but well-crafted gem,
An ancient piece of pottery, too unique
To please or captivate anyone but the discerning eye,
These can only be compared to the sonnet.

FROM the dawn of spring till the year gets old,
  Nothing new happens in what’s done or said,
The leaves share the same old story—
  "Budding, bursting, dying, dead."
And always and forever the wild birds' song
  Is "coming, building, flying, fled."

Never does the round Earth wander or stray
Out of her ancient, established path,
And the sun's smile only knows these shifts—
Shining, blazing, gentle, and cold,
As spring softens or winter pulls away
The great heart of this golden sphere.

From our great father's birth to yesterday's dawn
  There were storms, sunshine, fruit, and frost.
And the sea was calm or the sea was rough
  His powerful mane like a lion's cross,
And always this cry filled the heart--
  Longing, loving, losing, lost.

For eternity, the wild wind roams, calling,
  From the south, the east, the north, and the west,
And one tired song the fields are whispering,
  "Sow, grow, harvest, rest,"
And the weary thoughts of the world, responding
  Like an echo to what is final and best,
          Murmurs—"Rest."

Last night I saw Helena. She who's been getting all the attention lately. She's the one for whom young Angus foolishly searched for a quiet grave instead of living without her for the rest of his life.

Wise men go crazy who stare at her for too long,
   She’s so full of dangers. Yet still
   I don’t find any charm in her smile,
Although I make her the subject of this sad song.

"Her golden hair?" Yes, it might be beautiful,
   But to me, every shiny, silky strand
   Feels stripped of beauty and lacks shine—
Too many hands have touched Helena's hair.

(I know a little girl who's so shy
She won't let her one true lover's hands
Playfully touch her soft brown hair bands
So delicate in her thoughts, and so innocent.)

"Her big dark eyes that shine like gems at night?
Large, long-lashed eyes and shiny?" maybe,
And yet they don't appeal to me.
Too many hearts have basked in their joy.

(I remember two gentle blue eyes, hidden
So beneath white curtains, and so covered
That I've sometimes begged for hours, and failed
To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)

"Her perfect mouth looked like a carved kiss?"
"Her sweet mouth, where hearts do, like flies, drown?"
I wouldn’t taste its sweetness for a crown;
Too many lips have savored its nectar's bliss.

(I know a mouth whose fresh dew, still wet,
   Lies like the bloom of a young grape, untouched and sweet,
   And even though I plead passionately at her feet,
She wouldn't let me touch it even if I were to die.)

In vain, Helena! Even though wise men might compete
   For your rare smile, or die from losing it,
   Protected by my sweet lady's trust, I sit,
And know you aren’t worth her slightest sigh.

Nothing is left of the ages we haven’t recorded
That rest in the quiet graveyard of time;
Their wisdom could have embarrassed our smartest thinkers,
Their greatness might have truly been amazing.
How weak our attempts for power seem,
How minimal the greatest efforts of our minds,
If in the end, after all we are, in just one short hour
Nothing endures.

Nothing is left but the Eternal Spaces,
   Time and decay pull up the forest trees.
Even the mighty mountains give up their places,
   And lower their proud heads beneath strange seas.
The great earth twists in some violent spasms
   And turns the proudest cities into flatlands.
The calm sea becomes a wide chasm—
      Nothing remains.

Nothing is left but the Eternal Forces,
   The sorrowful seas stop their whining and dry up,
Rivers are emptied and changed in their paths,
   Big stars fade away and disappear from the sky.
Ideas fade and ancient beliefs vanish,
   Our rarest joys and our sharpest sorrows
Are washed away with everything we love or despise—
      Nothing is left.

Nothing is left but the Eternal Nameless
And the all-creative spirit of the Law,
Unseen yet all-encompassing, without blame,
Unstoppable and flawless, forever in awe;
So full of love that it must create endlessly,
Destroying to create anew,
Constant and perfecting in its efforts,
It must eventually bring forth angels, after humans—
This, this remains!

A carefree rhyme of summer,
  Sweet, solemn, and tender;
Beautiful in the haze of the moon's soft light,
  Shining with the sunset's glory.

Summer and beauty over the lands--
  Easy hours of joy;
A glance exchanged and a brush of hands--
  A shift in the floating rhythm.

A richer shade in the blue skies,
   Winds from the tropics blowing;
A gentler beauty on the moon's bright face,
   And summer fading, fading.

The leaves fall gently, the green turns to brown,
  And tears mix with smiles;
A twilight moment and a precious flower, --
  And now the poem is done.

I believe it’s one of the sad truths
That our failures sometimes feel kinder
Than the success that brings inevitable loss—
True greatness fades when the world cheers,
Fame ruins what it tries to celebrate,
   Burdened by what people expect, our minds
   Can no longer rise to those distant heights and discover
The freedom that once fueled our inspiration.
When we start to listen to the loud applause
   Or hear the crowd's approval, we lose
The music of the universe,
   And walk not with gods and angels, but with ordinary people.
Until, weakened by our self-conscious fears,
The world's acclaim turns into mockery.

Life, like an energetic schoolboy, full of joy,
Carries us on his shoulders for a while.
No path is too steep for him to conquer.
With strong, agile limbs, as free as can be,
Like a young deer, he rushes by valley and sea,
   Through flowery meadows, by towering mountains,
   And the whole world feels like it's in rhythm,
Until, exhausted, he shouts, "Now carry me!"
   We can only complain, "Come on," Life says, "It's only fair!"
And he grabs hold of us. God! He pushes us so!
   He doesn’t let us rest all day long.
With every new step, we feel the weight increase,
Until our tired backs feel like they’re breaking,
   As we anxiously await Death to catch up with us.

They met each other in the clearing--
She looked up;
Oh no! Oh no! the girl!
She blushed in quick surprise.
Oh no! oh no! the sorrow that comes from looking up.

The bucket was full, the path was steep--
He reached out his hand to her;
She felt her warm, youthful heart race,
But didn't understand.
Oh! the sadness that comes from holding hands.

She sat next to him in the woods—
He courted her with words and sighs;
Ah! love in Spring feels sweet and nice,
And young women aren't so wise.
Unfortunately! unfortunately! the sorrow that comes from listening to lovers' sighs.

The summer sun shone brightly down,
   The wind blew from the south;
As blue eyes looked into brown eyes,
   His kiss landed on her lips.
Oh no! the sorrow that comes from kisses on the lips.

And now autumn is here,
   The lover wanders off,
With a broken heart and falling tears,
   She sits there all day long.
Oh no! Oh no! for broken hearts when lovers wander away.

Let the dream go. Aren't there other dreams
In the vastness of clouds hidden from your sight
That will still shine with beautiful golden glimmers,
And fill the shadows with light throughout?
What does it matter if one vision of the night is lost?
Let the dream go!!

Let hope fade away. Aren't there other hopes
   That will rise like new stars in your sky?
No one stays in dark despair for long
   Before some light shines down from above;
   What foolishness to think happiness is lost!
         Let hope fade!

Let the joy fade. Are there not other joys,
Like frost-covered bulbs that will eventually sprout and bloom?
It must be a harsh winter that can destroy
The strong roots hidden in their quiet grave.
What does the earth care for her short time of darkness
Let the joy fade!

Let the love fade away. Aren't there other loves
   Just as beautiful and filled with sweet uncertainty,
Floating through space like doves with snowy wings?
   They will come and find a place in your heart,
And you’ll say of each, "Look, this one is the best!"
         Let the love fade away!

INTO the gloom of the deep, dark night,
    With quick breaths and a startled scream;
Fast as a bird taking off in flight,
  Darts this creature of metal and steam.

Terrible dangers are lurking close by,
  Rocks and pits are near the path,
But directly by the glow of its bright white eye,
  It rushes through the shadows, thick and dark.

Terrible thoughts and intense desires
  Trouble its wild heart for many hours,
Where hidden fires burn and smolder,
  Always linked with strength and power.

It hates, like a wild horse hates the reins,
  The tight path through the valley and over the hills:
And screams with a cry of sudden pain;
  And yearns to pursue its own wild desires.

Oh, what am I but a machine, outfitted
 With muscle and flesh, created by God,
Racing through the thick, dark night,
 Guided only by the soul's bright light.

Often and often my restless heart grows tired,
  And despises its path with a deep resentment,
And yearns to pursue its own desires,
  And let the outcome be decided by fate.

O powerful machine of steel and steam;
  O human body of blood and bone,
Follow the clear path of the white light—
  That’s where safety is, and nowhere else.

The narrow path of bold truth,
  Illuminated by the soul's bright eye,
O passionate heart of restless youth,
  Only you can guide yourself through the night.

In the end, fame rewards the deserving person.   The lucky person might succeed for a day, But eventually, true talent comes out on top   And empty pretense goes unnoticed. There is no luck, no destiny, no fate, But fortune favors those who work and wait,     In the long run.

In the end, all sincere sorrow is worth it,
   There’s nothing better than righteous pain,
The sleepless nights, the terrible days with thorns,
   Bring a guaranteed reward for the suffering soul and mind.
Empty joys wear you out over time,
But sorrow brings a wonderful return
      In the long run.

In the end, everything hidden will come to light,
   The eye of truth will see through the darkness,
And whether good or bad, your secret will be revealed,
   No matter how well it’s kept out of sight.
All the unspoken reasons held inside
Are uncovered over time and come to light
      In the end.

In the end, all love is rewarded with love,
   Even if most people on earth don't appreciate it;
The great eternal authority above
   Keeps track of everything and will honor its value.
Share your love generously; don’t worry about the price;
Such a beautiful thing has never been wasted
      In the end.

Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?
  Does anyone cry on a day like this
With the sun shining above and the green earth below?
  Why, what is life but a dream of happiness?

With the sun, the sky, and the birds above me,
Birds singing as they soar and glide—
With the winds to chase and tell me they love me—
Who could feel lonely? Oh no, not me!

Somebody said, out on the street this morning,
  As I opened my window to let in the light,
That the darkest day for the world was starting;
  But I looked, and the East was a beautiful sight.

Someone who says they understand it
  Tells me the Earth is a place of sin;
But I, along with the bees and the birds—we disagree,
  And believe it's a world worth living in.

Some say that hearts are unreliable,
  That love brings sorrow, that life is hard,
And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle,
  Collects everything that is bright and beautiful.

I told the thrush, and we laughed together,
  Laughed until the woods were echoing;
And he said to me, as he groomed each feather,
  "Well, people have to complain if they can't sing."

Up he flew, but his song stayed,
  Ringing like a bell in my heart all day,
And quieted the voices of weak complaining,
  That buzzed like insects along the way.

O world of light, and O world of beauty!
Where can you find pleasures as sweet as yours?
Yes, life is love, and love is responsibility;
And what heart feels sorrow? O no, not mine!

There were two glasses sitting full to the top,
On a wealthy man's table, overflowing.
One was deep red like blood,
And the other was clear like a crystal stream.

Said the glass of wine to his paler sibling,
"Let’s share stories of the past with each other;
I can talk about feasts, and celebrations, and joy,
Where I was the star, for I ruled with power.
And the proudest and most impressive souls on earth
Fell under my influence, as if struck by a curse.
From the heads of kings, I’ve snatched the crown,
From the heights of fame, I’ve brought men down;
I’ve tarnished many an esteemed name,
I've taken virtue and handed out shame;
I’ve tempted the young with just a sip,
That has turned their future into a barren trip.
Far greater than any king am I,
Or any army beneath the sky.
I’ve made the driver’s strength give out,
And sent the train flying off its track.
I’ve caused good ships to sink at sea,
And the screams of the lost were music to me;
For they cried, 'Look how great you are!
Fame, power, wealth, talent, all fall before you,
And your strength and might are beyond compare.'"
"Ha! Ha! pale sibling," laughed the wine,
"Can you claim to have done things as remarkable as mine?"

Said the water glass, "I can't brag
About a king who lost his throne or a murdered guest;
But I can share stories of hearts that were sad,
Made light and happy by my crystal drops.
I've quenched thirsts and cooled foreheads;
I've soothed hands and saved souls.
I’ve flowed through valleys, rushed down mountains;
I’ve basked in sunlight and dripped from fountains.
I’ve broken my cloud chains and fallen from the sky,
And have brightened the landscape and lifted the eye.
I’ve relieved the hot foreheads of fever and pain,
I’ve helped parched fields grow lush with grain;
I can tell you about the powerful mill wheel,
That ground flour and turned at my command;
I can share about men brought low by you,
That I’ve uplifted and crowned anew.
I bring joy, I help, I strengthen and support,
I make the hearts of both man and woman light;
I free the captive of wine,
And everyone is better for knowing me."

These are the stories they shared with one another,
The glass of wine, and its lighter counterpart,
As they sat together, completely full,
On the wealthy man's table, overflowing.

What does our country need? No armies standing
With swords shining, ready for battle;
Not bigger navies, skilled and in control,
To conquer the seas with their strong might;
Not arrogant leaders with full pockets trying
To buy people and hold onto their power;
Not flashy figures competing with each other
For prizes of beauty, style, and grace.

But we want women, strong in spirit yet humble,
   With that rare gentleness that comes from kindness;
Women whose lives are pure, clean, and sacred,
   The women that all little children look up to;
Brave, sincere women, supportive of one another,
   With a deep disdain for anything petty or small;
Women who see the roles of wife and mother
   As far more noble than the title of a queen.

Oh! these are the ones who shape the heroes of our stories,
   These mothers, often stripped of beauty and youth,
Who, tired and worn, seek no greater honor
   Than to make some young soul a place of truth;
Who plant in hearts ready for growth
   The seeds of virtue and disdain for sin,
And patiently watch the beautiful harvest grow
   And remove the weeds that deceitful hands throw in;

Women who don’t have the gift of beauty
As some rare treasure to be bought and sold.
But cherish it as a valuable support for their duties—
The outer shell of their inner worth;
Women who, bending low over their cradles,
Ignore flattery and pay it no mind,
While their sincere prayers rise like incense
THESE are our country’s pride, our country’s need,

It’s done! In the flickering light of the fire,
   The last line has withered and curled.
In a small white pile of ashes
   Lie buried the hopes of your world.
There were crazy, foolish vows in each letter,
   It’s good they’ve shriveled and burned,
And the ring! Oh, the ring was a trap,
   It was better removed and returned.

But hey, is it all over? In the ashes
Where letters and mementos were thrown,
Have you burned away the heart that remembers,
And cherishes its wonderful past?
Do you believe that in this quick, careless way
You'll thoughtlessly burn and demolish
The months that were filled with passion,
The dreams that were overflowing with joy?

Can you erase the excitement of kisses
That lit up from lips to soul,
Or the heart that aches for lost joys
Despite its strong sense of control?
Have you erased the feel of warm fingers
That sent thrills through each pulse and vein,
Or the sound of a voice that still lingers
And pains with a haunting refrain?

Is it over? Is the drama of life finished?
You've turned off all the lights, but still,
Even though the curtain has come down,
Can the actors just go home and forget?
Ah, no! They’ll lie down to sleep
With a strange, restless pain in their hearts,
And in the dark, in anguish and tears,
They’ll dream they are still playing their roles.

"Genius, a tool for men, a weight for women."--Lamartine.

Dear God! there is no sadder fate in life
Than to be burdened so that you cannot
Sit down content with the ordinary life
Of a happy mother and devoted wife.

To feel your mind racing and your heart full
With all the chaos of the sea; to be filled
With passions and turmoil that you didn't ask for,
And burdened by the exhausting struggles of the wild world;

To always feel a fever in your heart;
   To lean in and listen, part scared, part ashamed,
   As a loud crowd confidently says your name;
To gather the fruits of your hard work in anxiety,
   And realize, no matter how much fame you gain,
You are just a fragile woman at the end of the day.

Mother says, "Don't rush into it,
Marriage often brings stress and worry."

Auntie says, with a serious tone,
"Wife is a synonym for slave."

Father asks, in a commanding tone,
"How does Bradstreet see his status?"

Sister singing softly to her twins,
Sighs, "With marriage, the real work starts."

Grandma, in her final days,
Whispers, "Girlhood is so sweet."

Maud, who has lost two husbands ("sod and grass")
Looks at me and sighs, "Oh no!"

They are six, and I am one,
Life for me has just started.

They are older, calmer, wiser:
Age should always be youth's guide.

They must know—but still, oh my,
When I look into Harry's eyes, I see

All the world's love is burning—
With my six advisors spinning,

I reply, "Oh, but Harry
is not like most men who get married.

"Fate has given me a gift,
A life filled with love is like Paradise."

"Life without it isn't worth living
All the silly pleasures of the world."

So, no matter what they say,
I will choose the wedding day.

Let the old snow be covered by the new:
The trampled snow, so dirty, stained, and soaked.
Let it be completely hidden from our sight
   By pure white flakes, all untouched and unmarked.
When Winter dies, lying at the sweet Spring's feet,
Let him be wrapped in a clean, white blanket.
Let old life be covered by the new:
   The past life so full of sad mistakes,
Let it be entirely hidden from view
   By actions as white and quiet as snowflakes.
Before this earthly life melts into the eternal Spring,
Let the white cloak of repentance drape
Softly around it, layer upon layer,
Just like the new snow covers the old.

My Soul and I are alone today,
   All in the bright weather;
We were tired of the world and pushed it aside,
   So we could enjoy our time together.

Our host, the Sun, in the bright blue sky
Is mixing a rare, sweet wine,
In the shining gold of this cup raised up high,
For me and this Soul of mine.

We consider it a safe and noble drink,
   And a remedy for every ache;
It helps us to love, and helps us to think,
   And boosts both body and mind.

And sitting here, with my soul all by itself,
   Where the yellow sun rays shine,
Of all the friends I've ever had
   I think this one is the best of all.

We hardly ever meet when the world is close,
   Because the world has a charming way
And offers me so many bright and precious things
   That my soul keeps itself separate.

But when I get tired of laughter and joy,
   Of shine, sparkle, and glamour,
Like an old friend I've known it comes to me,
   With a smile that's gentle and bittersweet.

And we walk together like two friends do,
   And laugh and drink God's wine.
Oh, a true companion any day
   I discover this Soul of mine.

HOW happy they seem,
  How cheerful, or how proudly they smile,
How brightly their faces are shining,
  These folks who make up the crowd.
How they bow, how they bend, how they flutter,
  How they look at each other and grin,
How they glow, and what clever things they say!
  But a strange thought has crossed my mind!

It’s strange, but I’m here and imagining
  These people who are now acting,
All compelled by some weird magic
  To speak and to act sincerely.
What a quiet would settle over the laughter!
  What silence would fall on the fun!
And then what a wail would follow,
  As the night wind moves across the land,

If the secrets buried deep and concealed,
  In the complex hearts of the crowd,
Were suddenly summoned and revealed
  To stand up and shout out loud,
How strange people would appear to each other!
  Longtime friends and brothers,
Wouldn't recognize one another,
  Draped in their new sorrows and fears,

From broadcloth, velvet, and lace,
  The sounds of despair would echo,
And faces would turn pale
  As hands and hair were wrung in distress.
That man with his honorable reputation,
  The lady down there with the rose,
That girl with the freshness of spring,
  Who understands the secrets of those?

Smile on, you performers, smile warmly!
  Step lightly, bow low, and laugh loudly!
Even though the world is fooled and entirely,
  I see you, oh sorrowful crowd!
I watch you with deep sympathy:
  But keep playing your role,
Be cheerful, be joyous, be clever!
  It's better than revealing your true feelings.

If the weary old world should slip a gear
Sometime, in its dizzy spinning,
And go off the rails with a sudden jolt,
What an end to all the wrongdoing,
What a break from struggle and the weights of life
For the millions of people living here,
What a way to escape from stress, and worry and exhaustion,
All in a beautiful moment.

As it moves around the sun in a smooth arc
   It speeds and rushes and races,
If it were to lose its balance and leap
   Into the endless ocean of space,
What a blessed relief it would provide from the pain,
   And the struggles and labor surrounding us,
To be suddenly thrown out of the solar system
   And let it continue on without us.

With not a sigh or a sad goodbye
   For the loved ones we left behind,
We would go with a leap and a big jump
   Where no grave could ever find us.
What a wild, crazy rush would fill our veins
   As the big earth, like a feather,
Should float through the air to who knows where,
   And take us all together.

No dark, damp grave and no mourner's sadness,
   No ringing bell in the tower,
But in one quick breath a painless end
   For a million billion people.
What greater joy could we want than this,
   To glide with a bird's carefree motion
Through endless space to a resting place,
   In a vast and misty ocean—
To leave this life for good
   Without breaking a single bond,
And a world ablaze as a funeral pyre,
   While the stars looked on and were amazed?

Of all the things that the Year buried under snow—
   The busy Old Year who has passed—
How many will come back in the Spring, I wonder,
   Brought to life by the sunshine of May?
Will the rose branches, completely hidden
   That don’t seem like rose bushes at all,
At the sweet Spring's call come up unexpectedly,
   And bud beautifully, and bloom for me?

Will the beautiful green Earth, whose beating heart
Is hidden like a girl's in her dress at night,
Awaken from her sleep, and with blade and flower
Adorn her clothes to satisfy my gaze?
Over the hill in the valley there
The most beautiful buttercups have bloomed and thrived;
When the snow that buried them has melted,
Will they reach up to the sun and bloom again?

When wild winds blew and a sleet storm hit,
   I lost a jewel of incredible value;
If I walk that way when the snow has melted,
   Will the gem shine up from the bare brown earth?
I buried a love that was dead or fading,
   For the year to cover and hide from view;
But will it wake from a trance, crying,
   And push back to my heart, like a leaf reaching for the light?

Under the snow lie things we hold dear—
Hopes, ambitions, and dreams of people—
Faces that disappeared, and trusts that faded,
Never to shine and sparkle again.
The Old Year grabbed his treasures,
And covered them up and rushed away:
Of the thousand things he did, I wonder
How many will come alive when May calls?
O wise Young Year, with your hands tucked away
In your coat of ermine, please tell me!

I believe it's the responsibility of someone who is talented
   And uniquely blessed in everyone's eyes,
To seek no peace until their life is raised
   Completely to match their incredible abilities.

He must shape the man into unique wholeness,
For gems are only set in pure gold.
He must craft his thoughts into perfect clarity.
And eliminate foolishness and arrogance from his mind.

For anyone who drinks from a god's golden fountain
   Of art or music or rhythmic song
Must sift out the bad vibes from their soul,
   And pull out the roots of wrong from their heart.

Great gifts should be worn, like a crown that suits you,
   And not like jewels in a beggar's hands!
And the effort must be steady and relentless
   That raises the king to meet the crown's demands.

What can we say in New Year rhymes,
That hasn't been said a thousand times?

The new years arrive, the old years pass,
We know we dream, we dream we know.

We get up laughing with the morning light,
We go to bed crying with the night.

We embrace the world until it hurts,
We complain about it and long for freedom.

We live, we love, we date, we get married,
We adorn our brides, we cover our dead.

We laugh, we cry, we hope, we fear,
And that's the weight of the year.

Is it the world, or is it just me, that feels sadder?
I don't see the beauty I used to see
In the meadow stream that used to sing so happily, or
In the branches of the willow tree.
The stream flows slower—its song sounds quieter
And not the tune it used to sing;
And the tree I once admired looks worn out
From the never-ending cycle of heat and cold.

When the sun rises and the stars disappear,
In that perfect moment of the new day,
Is it my eyes, or the dawn, I question,
That sees less gold and more gray?
I no longer see the beauty, those soft colors,
The rosy glory I used to know;
And I often take on a vague sadness
That another morning has come for me.

When the bright smile of that welcomed visitor
Shines on the meadow and lights up the sky,
Is it just me, or does Summer
Have less brightness than in the past?
The beauty that amazed me, the joy that filled me,
To the point of overflowing happy tears,
I walk past unnoticed, my sad eyes
Clouded by the shadow of lost years.

When the heart gets tired, everything feels dull;
When the weight gets heavy, the journey feels endless.
Thank God for bringing gentle death as a conclusion,
Like a big Amen to a little song.

The highest culture is to speak no ill,
The best reformer is the person whose eyes
Are quick to see all beauty and all value;
And by their own careful, well-organized life,
They alone correct those who stray.

When you look inward at your own soul, be harsh with yourself. But when your gaze shifts to someone else, let kindness guide you; and hold back From the negative judgments that come easily from ordinary people, like weeds growing in muddy ground.

Now, while your cheeks are still fresh and beautiful,
   While laughter and beauty shine in your eyes,
Before your young heart encounters the burden of "Care,"
   Or your joyful spirit becomes a place for sighs,
Is it not merciful to give you peace
By plunging this sharp dagger into your heart?
Dying so young, with all your youthful potential,
What part of life wouldn’t you want to experience, truly?
         Only the sorrow,
      Sweetheart, that heartbroken souls know.

Now, in this sacred moment of complete trust,
   Of pure joy and racing hearts,
Before change comes, as it surely will,
   With jarring doubts and conflicts, to ruin
Our far too perfect peace, I ask you, Sweet,
Wouldn’t it be better for both of us, and fitting,
If I were to bring swift death to seal our happiness?
Dying so full of joy, what could we lose?
         Nothing but tears,
      Sweetheart, and tiring years.

How small the act! Just one precise strike
Here, where I feel your warm heart beating,
And then another through my own, and then
Our perfect union would be complete:
So, beyond all separation, I would claim you as mine.
Gone with our youth, and trust, and divine love,
Shouldn’t we hold onto the best of life that way?
What do we gain by living day after day?
What do we gain,
Sweetheart, but bitter pain?

You, my Christ, with Your gracious ear lowered
During these joyful New Year days,
To hear the countless prayers rising to heaven--
For even hard hearts have
Some hidden desire for fame, or wealth, or power,
Or to be free from all worries--
Dear, patient Christ, who listens hour after hour,
Hear now a Christian's prayer.

Let this young year that quietly walks beside me,
   Be a source of grace
To guide me up, no matter what happens,
   Closer to the Master's face.
If I must bleed from sharp stones on the mountain
   Before I reach the Fountain
Where living waters flow,
   Then throw those stones in my path.

If my prideful soul needs hardships and painful losses
To prepare it for Your crown,
Then break it, burn it, weigh it down with burdens,
And let sorrows bring it low.
Do whatever it takes to shape me for Your will,
And if I start to complain,
Fill me with suffering one more time
Until I can smile through the pain.
Bring on dangers—death! but show me how to face them;
Wrap me in Your care.
Bring trials, tears! but give me strength to endure them—
This is a Christian's prayer.

I have crossed the bridges of time.
      Wet with tears
Were the paths I walked as I went back
      Down the road
To the valley where I left, under skies of Truth,
      My lost youth.

As I moved on, I let go of everything weighing me down—
      Let it all go;
All my sadness, all my worries, all my stress,
      My gray hair,
I set aside, like a weary traveler's heavy bag,
      By the path.

As I got closer to the joyful valley with light steps,
      My heart raced
To the beat of a song I remembered
      From long ago,
And my spirits overflowed and bubbled like a fountain
      Flowing down a mountain.

On the edge of that valley, I found you,
      Reliable and real;
And we roamed through the golden summer paradise
      Hand in hand.
And my heart raced with joy in the ecstasy
      Of your kisses.

And we met there, in those lush and vibrant places,
      Smiling faces,
And sweet laughter rose up from the valleys
      Like golden bells.
And the world was overflowing with the glory
      Of Youth's story.

It was just a dreamer's journey of the mind;
      And once more
I've left the joyful valley far behind;
      And I notice
Time is standing by with his loads in a bag
      For me to carry.

As he rushes me along, like a rough but well-meaning friend,
      To the end,
Will I find again those I loved and lost so much?
      Who knows!
But the dead know what life will be like afterward—
      And they remain silent!