We present this work in honor of the poet’s 240th birthday.
Thrilled by the first Phœbean impulses, Rough versicles I traced with facile hand: And yet, to my surprise, those lines of mine Almost took wing into a distant flight. A hope of Pindus did I hear me named: But praise increased my ardour, not my pride. And yet some vanity there came and mixed With the fair issue of my preluding: But, all the more I heard the applause increase, With equal force did study grow in me. Not surely that I tried to load my page With pomp abstruse extraneous to my drift; But counterwise each image and each rhyme, The more spontaneous, so meseemed more fair. In trump of gold and in the oaten pipe Let some seek the sublime, I seek for ease. I shunned those verses which sprawl forth untuned Even from my days of schoolboy tutelage: I know they please some people, but not me: Admiring Dante, Metastasio I laud; and hold—a true Italian ear Must not admit one inharmonious verse. Some lines require a very surgeon’s hand To make them upon crutches stand afoot. So be they! But, to set them musical, They must, by Heaven, be in themselves a song. This seems a truthful, not a jibing, rule— Music and lyric are a twinborn thing. Yet think not that I deem me satisfied With upblown empty sound without ideas:— Then will a harmony be beautiful When great emotions and great thoughts it stirs.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 175th birthday.
The waratah has stained her cheek, Her lips are even brighter, Like virgin quartz without a streak Her teeth are, but far whiter. Her eyes are large arid soft and dark, And clear as running water; And straight as any stringy bark Is Lil, the digger’s daughter.
She’ll wash a prospect quick and well, And deftly rise the ladle; The weight of gold at sight she’ll tell, And work with tub and cradle. She was her father’s only mate, And wound up wash and water, She worked all day and studied late, For all she knows he taught her.
She stood to wait the word below. A test for woman, rather; When I sprang to the windlass bow, And helped her land her father, She turned her pretty face on me To thank me, and I thought her The grandest girl of all her race Sweet Lil, the digger’s daughter.
And when my luck began to change I grew a trifle bolder, And told my love, but it was strange She knew before I told her. She said that she would be my wife, Then home I proudly brought her, To be my loving mate for life, But still the digger’s daughter.
We present this work in honor of the 130th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Come, embrace me, never remove your arms from round my neck, never hide your lovely face from me, don’t run away shyly. Let our lips meet In an endless, burning kiss. Let the hours, slow and sweet, Flow by just like this. Doves fall silent in green tamarind trees; spikenards have exhausted their supply of scents. You’re growing languid; your eyes close with fatigue, and your bosom, sweet friend, is trembling. On the river bank Everything droops and swoons; The rosebays on the beach Grow drowsy with the heat. I’ll offer you repose on this carpet of clover, in the perfumed shade of orange trees in bloom.