I never see, after nocturnal rain, The wandering stars move through the air serene, And flame forth 'twixt the dew-fall and the rime, But I behold her radiant eyes wherein My weary spirit findeth rest from pain; As dimmed by her rich veil, I saw her the first time; The very heaven beamed with the light sublime Of their celestial beauty; dewy-wet Still do they shine, and I am burning yet. Now if the rising sun I see, I feel the light that hath enamored me. Or if he sets, I follow him, when he Bears elsewhere his eternal light, Leaving behind the shadowy waves of night. FRAGMENT. TRIONFO D' AMORE. I know how well Love shoots, how swift his flight, How now by force and now by stealth he steals, How he will threaten now, anon will smite, And how unstable are his chariot wheels. How doubtful are his hopes, how sure his pain, And how his faithful promise he repeals. How in one's marrow, in one's vital vein, His smouldering fire quickens a hidden wound, Where death is manifest, destruction plain. In sum, how erring, fickle and unsound, How timid and how bold are lovers' days, Where with scant sweetness bitter draughts abound. I know their songs, their sighs, their usual ways, Their broken speech, their sudden silences. Their passing laughter and their grief that stays, I know how mixed with gall their honey is. FRAGMENT. TRIONFO DELLA MORTE. Now since nor grief nor fear was longer there, Each thought on her fair face was clear to see, Composed into the calmness of despair-- Not like a flame extinguished violently, But one consuming of its proper light. Even so, in peace, serene of soul, passed she. Even as a lamp, so lucid, softly-bright, Whose sustenance doth fail by slow degrees, Wearing unto the end, its wonted plight. Not pale, but whiter than the snow one sees Flaking a hillside through the windless air. Like one o'erwearied, she reposed in peace As 't were a sweet sleep filled each lovely eye, The soul already having fled from there. And this is what dull fools have named to die. Upon her fair face death itself seemed fair. TRANSLATIONS FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET. THE MAY NIGHT. MUSE. Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre; The buds are bursting on the wild sweet-briar. To-night the Spring is born--the breeze takes fire. Expectant of the dawn behold the thrush, Perched on the fresh branch of the first green bush; Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre.