nge,
The fisherboys now stir the silent air
With sudden ringing shouts and joyful plays;
And the light barks that, fastened, wait their coming,
Flutter impatiently like flapping wings
Of birds whose feet are bound. And all about,
The lake-like sea revels in shimmers white
Like a wide-open pearl shell on the beach.

About the windmill, the old ruin, when
The noon's beams burn like red-hot iron bars,
A laden sleep draws with its heavy breath
All weary skippers and all mariners:
The harpoons creak not in the hand's hard clasp;
The fish alone stir in the realm of dew;
The calm lagoon about is all agleam,
A shield of silver, plaited with pure gold.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, when
The sun is setting, decked in all his glory,
The boys go running, looking for pumice stones;
And lads and lasses, for sweet furtive glances;
And old men, lingering for memories.
Old age is calm, and youth considerate.
And the lagoon about, a purple glow,
A garden thickly planted with blue gentians.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, when
The secret midnight glides by silently,
Sea Nereids, brought on the wings of air
From the sea caves of Fairies on their steeds
Of mist with manes of radiating light,
Sing songs, and bathe their diamond forms, and love,
While round about the princess-like lagoon
Wears as her royal robe the star-spun sky.

Far by the windmill, the old ruin, ere
The smile of dawn shine with its rosy tinge,
The hosts of tyrant slayers mount from below
And kiss the earth war-nurtured and war-glad.
They raise again the ruin to a castle
With rifles singing back to victories;
And the lagoon is full of flashes swift,
Like a dark eye kindled with fiery wrath.

WHAT THE LAGOON SAYS

I have the sweetness of the lake and have
The bitterness of the great sea. But now,
Alas! my sweetness is a little drop;
My bitterness, a flood. For the cold winter,
The great corsair, has come with the north wind,
Death's king. My azure blood has slowly flowed
Out of my veins and gone to bring new life
To the deep seas. A shroud weed-woven wraps me.

My little islands as my tombstones stand,
And yonder well-built weirs are like young trees
That droop above my grave bereft of water.

But even so in the death's cold clasp, I hear
Within my breast a secret voiceless flutter
Like the young fish's flurry when, transfixed,
It is dragged by the spear out of the sea.
For I still dream of the sweet breath of love,
And wait for