Ah, many the long night thou and I
Have passed at ease with the wine-crowned cup,
Till the red dawn gleamed in the night-dim sky
And the stars of morn in the east rose up,
And along the west the stars of night
Like defeated armies pressed their flight.
Then the brightest of joys were ours to gain.
With never a care in the world to cloud,
And pleasure untouched by the hand of pain,
Were delight with eternal life endowed:
But alas! that even the fairest boon
Is doomed, like night, to be spent too soon.
The sky at summer’s coming dons a cloak of dust
stirred up by wind to form a parasol
for keeping off the heat from earth.
The bees fly not as hitherto forthwith
to drink the nectar of the coral tree,
for they doubt its flower may be forest fire.
At night the clouds bring the sky within our grasp and
shorten the horizon;
briefly they interrupt the thick low sound of rain with
then, opening their eyes of lightning and viewing all the world
as if to see if any spot of land is left undrowned,
they rain again.
The sounding ocean
Throbs beneath the eye
Of the moon veiled darkly
And throbs again,
While a violent sinister
Its long zigzag brilliant,
Slits a sky of bister,
And each wave,
In convulsive bounds,
Goes, comes, shouts, glistens,
The length of reefs,
And in the sky
Where the tempest ranges,
The thunder roars