Remembrance

 

The north-easterly blows,

Of winds the dearest to me

Because a fiery spirit

And happy voyage it promises mariners.

But go now, go and greet

The beautiful Garonne

And the gardens of Bourdeaux,

To where on the rugged bank

The path runs and into the river

Deep falls the brook, but above them

A noble pair of oaks

And white poplars looks out;

 

Still well I remember this, and how

The elm wood with its great leafy tops

Inclines, towards the mill,

But in the courtyard a fig-tree grows.

On holidays there too

The brown women walk

On silken ground,

In the mounth of March,

When night and day are equal

And over slow footpaths,

Heavy with golden dreams,

Lulling breezes drift.

 

But someone pass me

The fragrant cup

Full of the dark light,

So that I may rest now ; for sweet

It would be to drowse amid shadows.

It is not good

To be soulless

With mortal thoughts. But good

Is converse, and to speak

The heart's opinion, to hear many tales

About the days of love

And deeds that have occured.

 

But where are the friends ? Where Bellarmine

And his companion ? Many of man

Is shy of going to the source ;

For wealth begins in

The sea. And they,

Like painters, bring together

The beautiful things of the earth

And do not disdain winged war, and

To live in solitude, for years, beneath the

Defoliate mast, where through the night do not gleam

The city's holidays

Nor music of strings, nor indigenous dancing.

 

But now to Indians

Those men have gone,

Ther on the airy peak

On grape-covered hills, where down

The Dordogne comes

And together with the glorious

Garonne as wide as the sea

The current sweeps out.

But it is the sea

That takes and gives remembrance,

And love no less keeps eyes attentively fixed,

But what is lasting the poets provide.

 

Michael Hamburger