Poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton / [by Louise Chandler Moulton] [electronic text]

Translations.

Turn over a new leaf.

DEKKER.

LONG WEEPING.

(From the German of Heine.)

I HAVE in a dream been weeping; Thou wert in thy grave, I dreamed. I awoke from that bitter dreaming, And still the hot tears streamed.

I have in a dream been weeping; I dreamed thou wert gone from me. I awoke, and awake kept weeping, Long time and bitterly.

I have in a dream been weeping; I dreamed that thou still wert kind. I awoke, but I weep forever: My tears have made me blind.

BY MOONLIGHT.

(From Heine.)

LIKE dark dreams stand the houses, Stretched out in lengthened row; And shrouded close in my mantle I silently by them go.

The bell of the Cathedral Chimes midnight from above; I know, with charms and kisses, Now waits for me my Love.

The moon is my companion, Who kindly leadeth me; At last I reach her dwelling, And cry out joyfully:

"Old Confidante, I thank thee That thou hast lit my way! Shine on, now that I leave thee, And lend the rest thy ray!

"And should'st thou find a lover, Who lonely makes his moan, Give him the same dear comfort That I, of old, have known."

THROUGH THE DARKNESS.

(From Heine.)

WE travelled alone in the darkness, Posted the whole night through; On each other's hearts we rested; We laughed and jested, too.

But with the dawn of the morning, My Child, how astonished were we; For between us Love was sitting, A passenger blind was he.

THE MIRROR.

(From the Provençal of Théodore Aubanel.)

OH, long ago she dwelt In this gay little room— How shall I find my flower Here where she used to bloom? O longing, thirsting eyes, Pursue the dear surprise: Mirror, thou know'st her well— Work thou some magic spell And bring her back!

Here, when the morn was bright, She bathed her lovely face, Her little hands she bathed, And clad herself with grace. Between lips glad with song Her teeth shone, white and strong: Mirror, thou know'st her well— Work thou some magic spell To bring her back!

So innocent, so blithe, Yet starting at a sound, She let her long hair's veil Fall her white shoulders round. Then from her grandsire's book Her morning prayer she took: Mirror, thou know'st her well— Work thou some magic spell And bring her back!

Ah, there the book leans now, Against the sacred palm— Open, as when she prayed, Or read some holy psalm! Surely I hear her feet— The wind with them is fleet: Mirror, thou know'st her well— Hast thou no magic spell To bring her back?

At high mass or at fête How fair she was to see! And I, who should have prayed,— O Lord, forgive thou me!— Watched her, as there she knelt; For prayer her name I spelt: Mirror, thou know'st her well— Work me some magic spell And bring her back!

Here leaned she forth to talk; Here of her tasks she thought; For God's love and God's poor Such patient stitches wrought; Her swift hands to and fro Before thee used to go: Mirror, thou know'st her well, Yet hast no magic spell To bring her back!

Glad days of foolish chat, Dear days of love and rhyme, Season of mirth and dance, Love's long-lost, golden time, Bright hair where sunshine lay The priest's hands sheared away: Mirror, thou know'st her well— Hast thou, indeed, no spell To bring her back?

But thou dost rule, O God! Thy harvest springs from pain; And fairest blooms are fed On tears that fall like rain. O Gatherer divine, The sweetest flowers are thine! Mirror, thou know'st her well— Why hast thou not some spell To bring her back?

The day she went away Her cheeks were bathed in tears; The long night she had wept Past joys and future fears; But when the convent's door Had closed, she wept no more: Mirror, thou know'st her well— I seek thy magic spell To bring her back.

Under the half-dead vine To this porch I drew nigh: "This House to Let," I read— It hurt me like a cry. No one awaits me here; But still my heart draws near: Mirror, thou know'st her well— Yet thou canst work no spell To bring her back.

LA VIE.

(From the French of Montenaeken.)

AH, brief is Life, Love's short, sweet way, With dreamings rife, And then—Good-day!

And Life is vain— Hope's vague delight, Grief's transient pain, And then—Good-night!