O Nightingale, the poet’s bird,
A kinsman dear thou art,
Who never sings so well as when
The rose-thorns bruise his heart.
But since thy agony can make
A listening world so blest,
Be sure it cares but little for
Thy wounded, bleeding breast!
Brown earth-line meets gray heaven,
And all the land looks sad;
But Love ’s the little leaven
That works the whole world glad.
Sigh, bitter win; lower, frore clouds of gray:
My Love and I are living now in May!
My body answers you, my blood
Leaps at your maddening, piercing call
The fierce notes startle, and the veil
Of this dull present seems to fall.
My soul responds to that long cry;
It wants its country, Hungary!
Not mine by birth. Yet have I not
Some strain of that old Magyar race?
Else why the secret stir of sense
At...
In thy coach of state
Pass, O King, along:
He no envy feels
To whom God giveth song.
Starving, still I smile,
Laugh at want and wrong:
He is fed and crowned
To whom God giveth song.
Better than all pomps
That to rank belong,—
One such dream as his
To whom God giveth song.
Let us...
I Went to dig a grave for Love,
But the earth was so stiff and cold
That, though I strove through the bitter night,
I could not break the mould.
And I said: “Must he lie in my house in state,
And stay in his wonted place?
Must I have him with me another day,
With that awful change in his face?”
I Ask not how thy suffering came,
Or if by sin, or if by shame,
Or if by Fate’s capricious rulings:
To my large pity all’s the same.
Come close and lean against a heart
Eaten by pain and stung by smart;
It is enough if thou hast suffered,—
Brother or sister then thou art.
We will not speak of what we know,
Rehearse...
How can it be that I forget
The way he phrased my doom,
When I recall the arabesques
That carpeted the room?
How can it be that I forget
His look and mien that hour,
When I recall I wore a rose,
And still can smell the flower?
How can it be that I forget
Those words that were the last,
When I recall...
Green blood fresh pulsing through the trees,
Blacks buds, that sun and shower distend;
All other things begin anew,
But I must end.
Warm sunlight on faint-colored sward,
Warm fragrance in the breezes’ breath;
For other things art heat and life,
For me is death.
I Made the cross myself whose weight
Was later laid on me.
This thought is torture as I toil
Up life’s steep Calvary.
To think mine own hands drove the nails!
I sang a merry song,
And chose the heaviest wood I had
To build it firm and strong.
If I had guessed—if I had dreamed
Its weight was meant for me,...
I Shall go out when the light comes in—
There lie my cast-off form and face;
I shall pass Dawn on her way to earth,
As I seek for a path through space.
I shall go out when the light comes in;
Would I might take one ray with me!
It is blackest night between the worlds,
And how is a soul to see?
