Oh, I would live!—give me of life one spark! To dream—and then embrace the grave so dark? My God, how black is this decree of doom Writ in the lees of dread sepulchral gloom! Oh, give my soul one drop of living fire— To love—and live for ever I desire! Ye stars of heaven, into my spirit fall, There live, and hear your hapless lover call! To my pale brow the springtime brings no rose. No smile for me in this world’s sunbeams glows. Night is my coffin, stars for lights flame round. The moon all weeping seeks my funeral mound. There are some men for whom no mourners sigh— It was for them He placed that moon on high; And he that to death’s portals draweth near First life would have—and then a mourner’s tear. In vain the stars of heaven spelt “Love” for me And nightingales explained its mystery. In vain of Love I learnt to know the truth, And crystal waves reflected back my youth. In vain the forest silent lay around— The secret leaves gave forth no breath or sound; They would not break upon my reverie— They let me dream of Love eternally. All, all in vain I saw the flowers of spring Their incense to my dreams’ fair altar bring; With their delights they all have mocked at me— And all the world is but God’s mockery! A DAY AFTER By BEDROS TOURIAN Slumbering darkly yesterday, As in deathly sweats I lay, And two roses fiery red On my faded cheeks were spread— On my brow perchance a ray Of Death’s pallor trembling lay. And I prayed and longed for death. Then I heard a sobbing breath.... I unclosed my weary eyes And beheld my mother’s tears— Saw those priceless pearls arise, Tokens of her love, her fears. In her heart what grief she bore! And I was that anguish sore. Ah, I raged tempestuously, That black torrent outward leapt [12]:— God of mercy, pardon me, For the tears my mother wept! WITHOUT THEE WHAT ARE SONG AND DANCE TO ME? By SAYAT NOVA Without thee what are song and dance to me? The castagnettes I throw down wearily. My heart and thoughts are ever filled with thee, So rhymes and verses leave me, one by one. How can one bandage serve for gashes twain? How on two masters wait a single swain? Would not one gardener tend two groves in vain? For he must graft the saplings one by one. Well said our fathers, speaking of such woes, “I made a garden, others plucked the rose. Theirs was the sweetness, mine the thorny close.” In sooth these things befell me one by one! Without thee what are riches unto me? What worth could I in silks or cashmeres see? Arrayed in rags and sackcloth I would be, Wandering around the convents, one by one,