gazing in thine eyes,
Through my tears I see--
That I can never tell thee
How dear thou art to me!

TOLSTOY.

BURNT OUT IS NOW MY MISERY

Burnt out is now my misery--
love's yearning
No more unspeakably torments my heart,
Yet bearable alone through thee, my being--
All thou art not is idle, stale and dying,
Colourless, withered, dead,--save where thou art!

If I no more through false suspicion trouble
Thy happiness,--nor more my blood inflames my veins,
It is not turned to ice 'neath snowy cover,
But free from jealousy, to thee thy lover
Always with soul of ardour true remains.

So in their rapid fury mountain torrents
That hurl them off their moss-grown altars steep,
Seeking the flood with tossing, foaming riot--
Here in the vale are bound in the old currents,
To stream in future calm and clear and deep!

TOLSTOY.

IN HOURS OF EBBING TIDE

In hours of ebbing tide, oh trust not to the Sea!
It will come back to shore with redness of the morrow;
O don't believe in me when in the trance of sorrow
I swear I am no longer true to thee!

The waves will roll again in dazzling ecstasy,
From far away, with joy, to the beloved shore;
And I with breast aflame, beneath thy charm once more,
Shall haste to bring my liberty to thee!

TOLSTOY.

SWANS

White Swans, ye harbingers of Spring, a greeting fond from me!
Rejoicing thrills within the breast of Mother Earth anew--
From her once more the flowers push forth 'mid gleaming drops of dew,
And like the Swans, across my soul my dreams will lightly sweep,
And my heart blissful throbbing, ghostly tears of rapture weep.
O Spring I feel thy coming! And behold Thee, Poesy!

MAIKOW.

TO SLEEP

When shadows pale are sinking in hues the twilight weaves,
Upon the golden grain fields of gleaming wheaten sheaves--
Upon the emerald pastures and blue of forests deep,
When the soft mists of silver o'er the sea doth creep;
When 'mid the reeds, the swan's head is pillowed 'neath her wings,
The stream to sleep is rocking, light flowing as she sings,--
Then to my hut o'er thatched with golden straw,--o'er grown
By frail acacia green and leafy oaks, I turn.
And there with greeting holy, in radiant starry crown--
Her scented locks with deepest of purple poppies bound,
And with one dusky gauze enveiled her snowy breast--
The Goddess comes to me with sweet desire of rest.
A faint and roseate fire about my brow she