Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | February 8, 2009

POEM OF THE DAY: Translation

by Anne Spencer (1882 – 1975).


Translation (1922)


We trekked into a far country, 

My friend and I. 

Our deeper content was never spoken, 

But each knew all the other said. 

He told me how calm his soul was laid                                        5

By the lack of anvil and strife. 

“The wooing kestrel,” I said, “mutes his mating-note 

To please the harmony of this sweet silence.” 

And when at the day’s end 

We laid tired bodies ’gainst                                                         10

The loose warm sands, 

And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet; 

When star after star came out 

To guard their lovers in oblivion— 

My soul so leapt that my evening prayer                                  15

Stole my morning song!



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