I saw a robin last year,
I heard him fill his throat
High in the trembling elm tree
With note on gallant note.
So splendidly his red breast
Went flashing in the dew,
I thought beneath his glad wings
His heart had broken through.
I hear the robin this year,
His voice is sweet and strong,
But I can not give him welcome
Nor listen to his song.
How can he bear the new leaves
Around his last year's nest?
How can he sing with old wounds
Still red upon his breast?
Once when my life was young,
I, too, with Spring's bright face
By mine, walked softly along,
Pace to his pace.
Then burned his crimson may,
Like a clear flame outspread,
Arching our happy way:
Then would he shed
Strangely from his wild face
Wonderful light on me--
Like hounds that keen in chase
Their quarry see.
Oh, sorrow now to know
What shafts, what keenness cold
His are to pierce me through,
Now that I'm old.
The cock crows
But no queen rises.
The hair of my blonde
Is dazzling,
As the spittle of cows
Threading the wind.
Ho! Ho!
But ki-ki-ri-ki
Brings no rou-cou,
No rou-cou-cou.
But no queen comes
In slipper green.
In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four hills and a cloud.
From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
“The spring is like a belle undressing.”
The gold tree is blue.
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.
My back is turned on Spring and all her flowers,
The birds no longer charm from tree to tree;
The cuckoo had his home in this green world
Ten days before his voice was heard by me.
Had I an answer from a dear one's lips,
My love of life would soon regain its power;
And suckle my sweet dreams, that tug my heart,
And whimper to be nourished every hour.
Give me that answer now, and then my Muse,
That for my sweet life's sake must never die,
Will rise like that great wave that leaps and hangs
The sea-weed on a vessel's mast-top high.
Somehow this world is wonderful at times,
As it has been from early morn in May ;
Since first I heard the cock-a-doodle-do,
Timekeeper on green farms — at break of day.
Soon after that I heard ten thousand birds,
Which made me think an angel brought a bin
Of golden grain, and none was scattered yet —
To rouse those birds to make that merry din.
I could not sleep again, for such wild cries.
And went out early into their green world ;
And then I saw what set their little tongues
To scream for joy — they saw the East in gold.
Nay, do not grieve tho' life be full of sadness,
Dawn will not veil her splendour for your grief.
Nor spring deny their bright, appointed beauty
To lotus blossom and ashoka leaf.
Nay, do not pine, tho' life be dark with trouble.
Time will not pause or tarry on his way ;
To-day that seems so long, so strange, so bitter.
Will soon be some forgotten yesterday.
Nay, do not weep ; new hopes, new dreams, new faces,
The unspent joy of all the unborn years.
Will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow.
And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.
Springtime, O Springtime, what is your essence.
The lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose,
The dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam.
The voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes.
The hope of a bride or the dream of a maiden
Watching the petals of gladness unclose ?
Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret.
The bliss at the core of your magical mirth.
That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonder
And hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth.
That captures the heavens and conquers to blossom
The roots of delight in the heart of the earth ?
I FEEL the Spring far off, far off,
The faint far scent of bud and leaf--
Oh how can Spring take heart to come
To a world in grief,
Deep grief?
The sun turns north, the days grow long,
Later the evening star grows bright--
How can the daylight linger on
For men to fight,
Still fight?
The grass is waking in the ground,
Soon it will rise and blow in waves--
How can it have the heart to sway
Over the graves,
New graves?
Under the boughs where lovers walked
In Central Park the lovers sit,
On every hilly path they stroll,
Each thinks his love is infinite,
And crowns his soul.
But we are cynical and wise,
We walk a careful foot apart,
You make a little joke that tries
To hide your heart.
Give over, we have laughed enough;
Oh dearest and most foolish friend,
Why do you wage a war with love
To lose your battle in the end?
The spring is fresh and fearless
And every leaf is new,
The world is brimmed with moonlight,
The lilac brimmed with dew.
Here in the moving shadows
I catch my breath and sing--
My heart is fresh and fearless
And over-brimmed with spring.
They spoke of him I love
With cruel words and gay;
My lips kept silent guard
On all I could not say.
I heard, and down the street
The lonely trees in the square
Stood in the winter wind
Patient and bare.
I heard . . . oh voiceless trees
Under the wind, I knew
The eager terrible spring
Hidden in you.