All down the meadows of the morning
Earth’s grief is changed to pearls of dew,
And in a blaze of silver hue
Each tender blade of grass is burning.
The dawn with gold the night suborning
Leads on its radiant retinue.
See, down the meadows of the morning
Earth’s grief is changed to pearls of dew.
Sweet music sounds, the silence scorning,
As mounting larks salute the blue,
And peak and vale flash forth anew
The glory of the sun’s returning;
While down the meadows of the morning
Earth’s grief is changed to pearls of dew.
.mw-parser-output .wst-floatright{float:right;text-indent:0}Translated by Watson Kirkconnell
Oh happy we! Our highest wish fulfilled!
The myrtle thine—the cypress I have willed.
Who wished the sun, will, ere the battle wane,
Be glad of moon and stars to ease his pain.
The myrtle take, the cypress leave for me—
Whose fault it is, in graveyards it grows free.
Perhaps its branches rustling in the air,
Peace to thy soul will bring, and dreams most fair.
Then will that grave of mine with roses bloom,
Be thou but happy, happy in thy doom.
Translated by F. P. Kopta
I wander from the cloister
Adown the valley green.
The spring air wakes my fancies,
The dreams that might have been.
The picture of God’s mother
Hangs from a linden tree.
My soul it starts with memories—
Forgotten dreams I see.
Ah, strange this picture hidden,
Half hid by flowerets fair,
’Twas hung there by my mother,
Long years ago, just there.
And as I have been gazing
Upon it, I have felt
Within my soul a sorrow,
A bitterness there dwelt.
And while I look it changes;
My mother’s face I see.
The features calm in prayer,—
That prayer, it is for me.
The eyes with tear drops heavy,
The lips drawn for a kiss;
My mother’s face the last time
She kissed my brow in bliss.
And back I wander slowly,
Beneath the trees alone,
While thoughts of spring and sweetness,
My God, from me have flown.
Translated by F. P. Kopta
Oh, if thou wert a rose, love,
A lady-bird I’d be,
And ’mid thy fragrant petals
I’d spend my days with thee.
And if thou wert the sea, love,
A little boat I’d be,
And on thy briny waves, dear,
I’d rock eternally.
And if e’en death thou wert, love,
Thine own I’d wish to be,—
I’d hasten to thy snowy arms
And die in ecstasy!
Translated by J. B. Dudek
Published in Student Life