Here the springtime comes again,—
Wake the bagpipe—dance around—
Spreading o’er the hill and plain
Her green mantle—Hope is found!

There is sighing of the breeze,—
Wake the bagpipe—dance around—
And the cloud that swiftly flees
Shows the blue vault—Hope is found!

From its blossom laughs the flower,—
Wake the bagpipe—dance around—
And the murmur of its power
Shows the streamlet—Hope is found!

Blue-birds’ trill is on the air,—
Wake the bagpipe—dance around—
Open to the swallow, there
He comes winging—Hope is found!

Sweetheart, little sweetheart mine,—
Wake the bagpipe—dance around—
May is stealing through the vine,
With her promise—Hope is found!

Love is over all the land—
Wake the bagpipe—dance around—
To its breath our hearts expand,
Where it rises—Hope is found!

All the world is budding green,—
Wake the bagpipe—dance around—
And the budding leaves between,
Crops are growing—Hope is found!

Murmur, odor, color grow—
Wake the bagpipe—dance around—
Into hymns of love to show
What is stirring—Hope is found!

Soon the lightsome spring will die,—
Wake the bagpipe—dance around—
Every year the meadows nigh
Change her mantle—Hope is found!

Dear old days of innocence—
Hush the bagpipe—dance no more—
Lost, they never re-commence,—
Lost are mine—and Hope is o’er!—

Translation by Roderick Gill

 

Haughty, beautiful, embalming the wind
With her nascent scent, she gushed proudly
As the morning sun rises,
And from the auras the fragrant breath.

The nightingales with a loud accent,
As they contemplate beauty so early
They greeted her; and the elegant flower
held out her blades toward the sky.

But the hurricane came. —With an impious hand,
envious when looking at so much beauty,
To the ground he threw it withered grass.

Faithful image of my hope
That found a sad grave in my chest!
So fresh at birth! – so soon dead!…

We present this work in honor of the 565th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

Day’s terrified to lose her last bright features,
Seeing the night spread darkness overhead.
Small creatures dare not close their eyes for slumber.
The sick and weak ail even more in bed.
Then evil men can freely do their worst
Who’d have the cover of darkness last all year.
Not I who am tormented as no other
Yet do no harm. I long for daylight clear.

I do no harm, and yet do worse than murder
A thousand guiltless men for ruthless fun:
I summon all my powers for self-betrayal
And do not count on clemency from dawn.
No, every night I blast my brain concocting
Treasonous plots planned out for all day long.
No fear of death or dungeon life deter me
From visiting against myself such wrong.

Beauty of Prudence: I know it’s my doing
That love’s tight noose has twisted around me.
Straight is the path I take without delay
To end, unless your mercy set me free.

Translation by A.Z. Foreman

We present this work in honor of the 400th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

The tired thought
of the importunate pain
look for the best state
(if in love there is good condition).
That a chest so hurt
nor does glory feed him,
nor does the pain torment him,
how high the memory,
nor does he feel pain, nor glory,
neither good nor evil sustains him.

We present this work in honor of the 150th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

Whene’er Don Juan has a feast at home,
I am forgotten as if at Rome;
But he will for funerals me invite,
To kill me with the annoyance quite:
Well, so be it!

Celeste, with thousand coy excuses,
Will sing the song that set she chooses,
And all about that her environ,
Though like an owl, call her a Siren:
Well, so be it!

A hundred bees, without reposing,
Work their sweet combs, with skill enclosing;
Alas! for an idle drone they strive,
Who soon will come to devour the hive:
Well, so be it!

Man to his like moves furious war,
As if were not too numerous far
Alone the medical squadrons straight
The world itself to depopulate!
Well, so be it!

There are of usurers heaps in Spain,
Of catchpoles, hucksterers, heaps again,
And of vintners too, yet people still
Are talking of robbers on the hill:
Well, so be it!

In vain may the poor, O Conde! try
Thy door, for the dog makes sole reply;
And yet to spend thou hast extollers,
Over a ball two thousand dollars:
Well, so be it!

Enough today, my pen, this preaching;
A better time we wait for teaching:
If vices in vain I try to brand,
And find I only write upon sand,
Well, so be it!

Translation by James Kennedy