Part 14 (1/2)

Stretched in the hollow Of the damp bricks Perhaps her bones Freeze with the cold.

Does the dust return to dust?

Does the soul fly to heaven?

Is all vile matter, Rottenness, filthiness?

I know not. But There is something--something That I cannot explain, Something that gives us Loathing, terror, To leave the dead So alone, so wretched.

THE HARP

FROM THE SPANISH OF DON GUSTAVO A. BeCQUER

In a dark corner of the room, Perhaps forgotten by its owner, Silent and dim with dust, I saw the harp.

How many musics slumbered in its strings, As the bird sleeps in the branches, Waiting the snowy hand That could awaken them.

Ah me, I thought, how many, many times Genius thus slumbers in a human soul, Waiting, as Lazarus waited, for a voice To bid him ”Rise and walk.”

SONNET

FROM THE SPANISH OF DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO

I saw the ramparts of my native land, One time so strong, now dropping in decay, Their strength destroyed by this new age's way That has worn out and rotted what was grand.

I went into the fields: there I could see The sun drink up the waters newly thawed, And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed; Their miseries robbed the day of light for me.

I went into my house: I saw how spotted, Decaying things made that old home their prize.

My withered walking-staff had come to bend; I felt the age had won; my sword was rotted, And there was nothing on which I set my eyes That was not a reminder of the end.

SONNET ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF ANTONIO DE FERREIRO

That blessed sunlight that once showed to me My way to heaven more plain more certainly, And with her bright beam banished utterly All trace of mortal sorrow far from me, Has gone from me, has left her prison sad, And I am blind and alone and gone astray, Like a lost pilgrim in a desert way Wanting the blessed guide that once he had.

Thus with a spirit bowed and mind a blur I trace the holy steps where she has gone, By valleys and by meadows and by mountains, And everywhere I catch a glimpse of her.

She takes me by the hand and leads me on, And my eyes follow her, my eyes made fountains.

SONG

One sunny time in May When lambs were sporting, The sap ran in the spray And I went courting, And all the apple boughs Were bright with blossom, I picked an early rose For my love's bosom.