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(English Translation) Songs of the soul rejoicing at having achieved the high state of perfection, the Union with God, by way of spiritual negation. On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings-oh, happy chance!- I went forth without being observed, My house being now at rest. In darkness and secure, By the secret ladder, disguised-oh, happy chance!- In darkness and in concealment, My house being now at rest. In the happy night, In secret, when none saw me, Nor I beheld aught, Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart. This light guided me More surely than the light of noonday To the place where he (well I knew who!) was awaiting me- A place where none appeared. Oh, night that guided me, Oh, night more lovely than the dawn, Oh, night that joined Beloved with lover, Lover transformed in the Beloved! Upon my flowery breast, Kept wholly for himself alone, There he stayed sleeping, and I caressed him, And the fanning of the cedars made a breeze. The breeze blew from the turret As I parted his locks; With his gentle hand he wounded my neck And caused all my senses to be suspended. I remained, lost in oblivion; My face I reclined on the Beloved. All ceased and I abandoned myself, Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies. (Original Spanish) Canciones del alma que se goca d'auer llegado al alto estado de la perfeccion, que es la union con Dios, por el camino de la negacion espiritual En una noche obscura, con ansias en amores imflamada, ¡oh dichosa uentura! sali sin ser notada, estando ya mi casa sosegada. A escuras y segura, por la secreta escala disfracada, ¡oh dichosa uentura! a escuras y encelada, estando ya mi casa sosegada. En la noche dichosa, en secreto, que nadie me ueya, ni yo miraua cosa, sin otra luz ni guia sino la que en el coracon ardia. Aquesta me guiaua mas cierto que la luz del mediodia, adonde me esperaua quien yo bien me sabia, en parte donde nadie parecia. ¡Oh noche que me guiaste! ¡oh noche amable mas que el aluorada!, ¡oh noche que juntaste amado con amada, amada en el amado transformada! Y en mi pecho florido, que entero para el solo se guardaua, alli quedo dormido, y yo le regalaua, y el ventalle de cedros ayre daua. El ayre de la almena, cuando ya sus cabellos esparzia, con su mano serena en mi cuello heria, y todos mis sentidos suspendia. Quedeme y oluideme, el rostro recline sobre el amado, ceso todo, y dexeme, dexando mi cuidado entre las acucenas olvidado.

I Said the Table to the Chair, 'You can hardly be aware, 'How I suffer from the heat, 'And from chilblains on my feet! 'If we took a little walk, 'We might have a little talk! 'Pray let us take the air!' Said the Table to the Chair. II Said the Chair to the table, 'Now you know we are not able! 'How foolishly you talk, 'When you know we cannot walk!' Said the Table with a sigh, 'It can do no harm to try, 'I've as many legs as you, 'Why can't we walk on two?' III So they both went slowly down, And walked about the town With a cheerful bumpy sound, As they toddled round and round. And everybody cried, As they hastened to the side, 'See! the Table and the Chair 'Have come out to take the air!' IV But in going down an alley, To a castle in a valley, They completely lost their way, And wandered all the day, Till, to see them safetly back, They paid a Ducky-quack, And a Beetle, and a Mouse, Who took them to their house. V Then they whispered to each other, 'O delightful little brother! 'What a lovely walk we've taken! 'Let us dine on Beans and Bacon!' So the Ducky and the leetle Browny-Mousy and the Beetle Dined and danced upon their heads Till they toddled to their beds.

Their footless dance Is of the beautiful liability of their nature. Their eyes are round, boldly convex, bright as a jewel, And merciless. They do not know Compassion, and if they did, We should not be worthy of it. They fly In air that glitters like fluent crystal And is hard as perfectly transparent iron, they cleave it With no effort. They cry In a tongue multitudinous, often like music. He slew them, at surprising distances, with his gun. Over a body held in his hand, his head was bowed low, But not in grief. He put them where they are, and there we see them: in our imagination. What is love? Our name for it is knowledge.

Should you ask me, whence these stories? Whence these legends and traditions, With the odors of the forest With the dew and damp of meadows, With the curling smoke of wigwams, With the rushing of great rivers, With their frequent repetitions, And their wild reverberations As of thunder in the mountains? I should answer, I should tell you, "From the forests and the prairies, From the great lakes of the Northland, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Feeds among the reeds and rushes. I repeat them as I heard them From the lips of Nawadaha, The musician, the sweet singer." Should you ask where Nawadaha Found these songs so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions, I should answer, I should tell you, "In the bird's-nests of the forest, In the lodges of the beaver, In the hoof-prints of the bison, In the eyry of the eagle! "All the wild-fowl sang them to him, In the moorlands and the fen-lands, In the melancholy marshes; Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!" If still further you should ask me, Saying, "Who was Nawadaha? Tell us of this Nawadaha," I should answer your inquiries Straightway in such words as follow. "In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley, By the pleasant water-courses, Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. Round about the Indian village Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, And beyond them stood the forest, Stood the groves of singing pine-trees, Green in Summer, white in Winter, Ever sighing, ever singing. "And the pleasant water-courses, You could trace them through the valley, By the rushing in the Spring-time, By the alders in the Summer, By the white fog in the Autumn, By the black line in the Winter; And beside them dwelt the singer, In the vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley. "There he sang of Hiawatha, Sang the Song of Hiawatha, Sang his wondrous birth and being, How he prayed and how be fasted, How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, That the tribes of men might prosper, That he might advance his people!" Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches, And the rain-shower and the snow-storm, And the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades of pine-trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries;-- Listen to these wild traditions, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye who love a nation's legends, Love the ballads of a people, That like voices from afar off Call to us to pause and listen, Speak in tones so plain and childlike, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are sung or spoken;-- Listen to this Indian Legend, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature, Who believe that in all ages Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms There are longings, yearnings, strivings For the good they comprehend not, That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God's right hand in that darkness And are lifted up and strengthened;-- Listen to this simple story, To this Song of Hiawatha! Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles Through the green lanes of the country, Where the tangled barberry-bushes Hang their tufts of crimson berries Over stone walls gray with mosses, Pause by some neglected graveyard, For a while to muse, and ponder On a half-effaced inscription, Written with little skill of song-craft, Homely phrases, but each letter Full of hope and yet of heart-break, Full of all the tender pathos Of the Here and the Hereafter;-- Stay and read this rude inscription, Read this Song of Hiawatha!

"To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough" is a Scots poem written by Robert Burns in 1785, and was included in the Kilmarnock volume. According to legend, Burns was ploughing in the fields and accidentally destroyed a mouse's nest, which it needed to survive the winter. In fact, Burns's brother claimed that the poet composed the poem while still holding his plough. Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry Man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle, At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast, An' weary Winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear!

There was a man of double deed, Who sowed his garden full of seed; When the seed began to grow, 'Twas like a garden full of snow; When the snow began to melt, 'Twas like a ship without a belt; When the ship began to sail, 'Twas like a bird without a tail; When the bird began to fly, 'Twas like an eagle in the sky; When the sky began to roar, 'Twas like a lion at my door; When my door began to crack, 'Twas like a stick across my back; When my back began to smart, 'Twas like a penknife in my heart; And when my heart began to bleed, 'Twas death, and death, and death indeed.

Eloisa to Abelard is an Ovidian heroic epistle inspired by the 12th-century story of Heloise's illicit love for, and secret marriage to, her teacher Pierre Abelard, perhaps the most popular teacher and philosopher in Paris, and the brutal vengeance her family exacts when they castrate him, even though the lovers had married.

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; A hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Gliding o'er all, through all, Through Nature, Time, and Space, As a ship on the waters advancing, The voyage of the soul—not life alone, Death, many deaths I'll sing.

Under the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie: Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you 'grave for me: Here he lies where he long'd to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

AUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Raked the meadows sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast-- A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. "Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown; And listened, while a pleasant surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away, Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me! That I the Judge's bride might be! "He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. "My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat. "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. "A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. "And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay: "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, "But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune; And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go: And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead; And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again! "Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein, And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned; And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge! Go

ORIGINAL Wer reitet so spat durch Nacht und Wind? Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind; Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm, Er faßt ihn sicher, er halt ihn warm. "Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?" - "Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkonig nicht? Den Erlenkonig mit Kron und Schweif?" - "Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif." "Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir! Gar schone Spiele spiel' ich mit dir; Manch' bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand, Meine Mutter hat manch gulden Gewand." - "Mein Vater, mein Vater, und horest du nicht, Was Erlenkonig mir leise verspricht?" - "Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind; In durren Blattern sauselt der Wind." - "Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn? Meine Tochter sollen dich warten schon; Meine Tochter fuhren den nachtlichen Reihn, Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein." - "Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort Erlkonigs Tochter am dustern Ort?" - "Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh' es genau: Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau. -" "Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schone Gestalt; Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch' ich Gewalt." - "Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an! Erlkonig hat mir ein Leids getan!" - Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind, Er halt in Armen das achzende Kind, Erreicht den Hof mit Muh' und Not; In seinen Armen das Kind war tot. LITERAL ENGLISH TRANSLATION Who rides, so late, through night and wind? It is the father with his child. He has the boy well in his arm He holds him safely, he keeps him warm. "My son, why do you hide your face in fear?" "Father, do you not see the Elfking? The Elfking with crown and cape?" "My son, it's a streak of fog." "You dear child, come, go with me! (Very) beautiful games I play with you; many a colourful flower is on the beach, My mother has many a golden robe." "My father, my father, and hearest you not, What the Elfking quietly promises me?" "Be calm, stay calm, my child; Through scrawny leaves the wind is sighing." "Do you, fine boy, want to go with me? My daughters shall wait on you finely; My daughters lead the nightly dance, And rock and dance and sing to bring you in." "My father, my father, and don't you see there The Elfking's daughters in the gloomy place?" "My son, my son, I see it clearly: There shimmer the old willows so grey." "I love you, your beautiful form entices me; And if you're not willing, then I will use force." "My father, my father, he's touching me now! The Elfking has done me harm!" It horrifies the father; he swiftly rides on, He holds the moaning child in his arms, Reaches the farm with great difficulty; In his arms, the child was dead.