Seurasinko totuutta, minne ikinä se johtikin,
uhmasinko koko maailmaa sen puolesta
ja autoinko heikkoja väkeviä vastaan?
Jos tein niin, minut tullaan muistamaan ihmisten keskuudessa
sellaisena kuin olin ja minä minua
rakastettiin ja vihattiin elämässä.
Sen vuoksi, älkää pystyttäkö minulle muistomerkkiä,
älkää veistäkö kuvaa minusta
ettei - vaikken tulisikaan puolijumalaksi -
todellinen olemukseni unohtuisi
niin että varkaat ja valehtelijat,
jotka olivat vihollisiani ja tuhosivat elämäni,
tai varkaiden ja valehtelijoiden lapset
voisi tulla väittämään minua omakseen
ja kuvani edessä seisten vakuuttamaan
seisoneensa rinnallani tappioni päivinä.
Älkää pystyttäkö minulle muistomerkkiä,
ettei muistoani väärinkäytettäisi
valheen ja sorron hyväksi.
Minua ei saa ryöstää niiltä jotka rakastivat minua
eikä heidän lapsiltaan ;
minä haluan ikuisesti ja tahrattomana
kuulua niille
joiden puolesta elin.
Herman Altman
American writer (1868–1950)
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I loro spiriti battevano sul mio
come le ali di mille farfalle.
Chiudevo gli occhi e avvertivo i loro spiriti vibrare.
Chiudevo gli occhi, pure sapevo quando le loro ciglia
frangiavano dagli occhi abbassati le gote,
e quando giravano la testa:
e quando gli abiti aderivano a loro,
o ricadevano in squisiti drappeggi.
I loro spiriti osservano la mia estasi
con sguardi ampi di stellare indifferenza.
I loro spiriti guardavano la mia tortura;
la bevevano come fosse l'acqua della vita;
con le gote arrossate, gli occhi illuminati
la fiamma ascendente della mia anima indorava i loro spiriti,
come le ali di una farfalla che all'improvviso varca la luce del sole.
E invocavano da me la vita, vita, vita.
Ma prendendo la vita per me stesso,
afferrando e schiacciando le loro anime,
come un bambino schiaccia l'uva e beve
dalle sue palme il succo purpureo,
venni in questo vuoto senz'ali,
dove né rosso, né oro, né il vino,
né il ritmo della vita sono noti.
In the last spring I ever knew,
In those last days,
I sat in the forsaken orchard
Where beyond fields of greenery shimmered
The hills at Miller's Ford;
Just to muse on the apple tree
With its ruined trunk and blasted branches,
And shoots of green whose delicate blossoms
Were sprinkled over the skeleton tangle,
Never to grow in fruit.
And there was I with my spirit girded
By the flesh half dead, the senses numb,
Yet thinking of youth and the earth in youth,-
Such phantom blossoms palely shining
Over the lifeless boughs of Time.
O earth that leaves us ere heaven takes us!
Had I been only a tree to shiver
With dreams of spring and a leafy youth,
Then I had fallen in the cyclone
Which swept me out of the soul's suspense
Where it's neither earth nor heaven.
SAMUEL GARDNER
I who kept the greenhouse,
Lover of trees and flowers,
Oft in life saw this umbrageous elm,
Measuring its generous branches with my eye,
And listened to its rejoicing leaves
Lovingly patting each other
With sweet aeolian whispers.
And well they might:
For the roots had grown so wide and deep
That the soil of the hill could not withhold
Aught of its virtue, enriched by rain,
And warmed by the sun;
But yielded it all to the thrifty roots,
Through which it was drawn and whirled to the trunk,
And thence to the branches, and into the leaves,
Wherefrom the breeze took life and sang.
Now I, an under-tenant of the earth, can see
That the branches of a tree
Spread no wider than its roots.
And how shall the soul of a man
Be larger than the life he has lived?
Maurice, weep not, I am not here under this pine tree.
The balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet grass,
The stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls,
But thou grievest, while my soul lies rapturous
In the blest Nirvana of eternal light!
Go to the good heart that is my husband,
Who broods upon what he calls our guilty love–
Tell him that my love for you, no less than my love for him
Wrought out my destiny–that through the flesh
I won spirit, and through spirit, peace.
There is no marriage in heaven,
But there is love.
There is something about Death
Like love itself!
If with some one with whom you have known passion,
And the glow of youthful love,
You also, after years of life
Together, feel the sinking of the fire,
And thus fade away together,
Gradually, faintly, delicately,
As it were in each other's arms,
Passing from the familiar room-
That is a power of unison between souls
Like love itself!
I bought every kind of machine that's known-
Grinders, shellers, planters, mowers,
Mills and rakes and ploughs and threshers-
And all of them stood in the rain and sun,
Getting rusted, warped and battered,
For I had no sheds to store them in,
And no use for most of them.
And toward the last, when I thought it over,
There by my window, growing clearer
About myself, as my pulse slowed down,
And looked at one of the mills I bought-
Which I didn't have the slightest need of,
As things turned out, and I never ran-
A fine machine, once brightly varnished,
And eager to do its work,
Now with its paint washed off-
I saw myself as a good machine
That Life had never used.