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?
American writer (1868–1950)
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Margaret Fuller Slack I WOULD have been as great as George Eliot But for an untoward fate. For look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit, Chin resting on hand, and deep — set eyes — Gray, too, and far-searching. But there was the old, old problem: Should it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity? Then John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me, Luring me with the promise of leisure for my novel, And I married him, giving birth to eight children, And had no time to write. It was all over with me, anyway, When I ran the needle in my hand While washing the baby’s things, And died from lock — jaw, an ironical death. Hear me, ambitious souls, Sex is the curse of life.
Do the boys and girls still go to Siever's
For Cider, after school, in late September?
or gather hazel nuts among the thickets
On Aaron Hatfield's farm when the forsts begin?
For many times with the laughing girls and boys
Played I along the road and over the hills
When the sun was low and the air was ool
Stopping to club the walnuts tree
Standing leafless against a flaming west.
Now, the smell of the autumn smoke,
And the dropping acorns,
And the echoes about the vales
Bring reams of life. They hover over me.
William and Emily
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!
The Hill
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in a jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife — All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one? — All, all are sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of a broken pride, in the search for heart's desire,
One after life in far-away London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag — All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked
With venerable men of the revolution? — All, all are sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying — All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where is Old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,
Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary's Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time at Springfield.
George Gray
Molte volte ho studiato
la lapide che mi hanno scolpito:
una barca con vele ammainate, in un porto.
In realtà non è questa la mia destinazione
ma la mia vita.
Perché l’amore mi si offrì e io mi ritrassi dal suo inganno;
il dolore bussò alla mia porta, e io ebbi paura;
l’ambizione mi chiamò, ma io temetti gli imprevisti.
Malgrado tutto avevo fame di un significato nella vita.
E adesso so che bisogna alzare le vele
e prendere i venti del destino,
dovunque spingano la barca.
Dare un senso alla vita può condurre a follia,
ma una vita senza senso è la tortura
dell’inquietudine e del vano desiderio.
È una barca che anela al mare eppure lo teme.
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