Or are thy waters calm and still Admiring the blue sky, Where shining cloudlets, like thy foam, Are drifting softly by? Sad little lake, let us be friends! I too am desolate; I too would fain, beneath the sky, In silence meditate. As many thoughts are in my mind As wavelets o’er thee roam; As many wounds are in my heart As thou hast flakes of foam. But if heaven’s constellations all Should drop into thy breast, Thou still wouldst not be like my soul,— A flame-sea without rest. There, when the air and thou are calm, The clouds let fall no showers; The stars that rise there do not set, And fadeless are the flowers. Thou art my queen, O little lake! For e’en when ripples thrill Thy surface, in thy quivering depths Thou hold’st me, trembling, still. Full many have rejected me: “What has he but his lyre?” “He trembles, and his face is pale; His life must soon expire!” None said, “Poor child, why pines he thus? If he beloved should be, Haply he might not die, but live,— Live, and grow fair to see.” None sought the boy’s sad heart to read, Nor in its depths to look. They would have found it was a fire, And not a printed book! Nay, ashes now! a memory! Grow stormy, little mere, For a despairing man has gazed Into thy waters clear! Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell. SPRING By HOVHANNES HOVHANNESSIAN (Born 1869) None await thy smiling rays; Whither comest thou, O Spring? None are left to sing thy praise— Vain thy coming now, O Spring! All the world is wrapped in gloom, Earth in blood is weltering: This year brought us blackest doom— Whither comest thou, O Spring? No rose for the nightingale, No flower within park or dale, Every face with anguish pale— Whither comest thou, O Spring? CRADLE SONG By RAPHAEL PATKANIAN (1830–1892) Mother Sweet slumber now creeps o’er thee slow, Sweet breezes rock thee to and fro: My baby sleeps, so soft and low With sweetest songs I’ll sing oror. [5] Baby O Mother dear, thou art unkind My sleepless eyes so long to bind. [6] Anon I’ll rest, and sleep resigned;— Release me now, sing not oror. Mother Why dost thou shed those tears that flow Down thy sad cheeks with pearly glow? Thou’lt break thy heart with sobbing so,— Whom wilt thou have to sing oror? Baby At least my hands and feet unbind— My tender limbs are all confined; That gentle sleep my eyes may find, Then tie me in, and sing oror. Mother That tongue of thine is passing sweet, Yet with thy yards I cannot mete. Thou wilt not sleep, but at thy feet Wouldst have me sit, and sing oror. Baby