Seven songs from The Gardener

I am restless.  I am athirst for far-away things.
My soul goes out in a longing 
to touch the skirt of the dim distance.
O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, 
that I have no wings to fly, 
that I am bound in this spot 
evermore.

I am eager and wakeful, 
I am a stranger in a strange land.
Thy breath comes to me 
whispering an impossible hope.
Thy tongue is known to my heart 
as its very own.
O Far-to-seek, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, 
that I know not the way, 
that I have not the winged horse.

I am listless, I am a wanderer in my heart.
In the sunny haze of the languid hours, 
what vast vision of thine takes shape 
in the blue of the sky!
O Farthest end, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget,
that the gates are shut everywhere in the house 
where I dwell alone!

When she passed by me with quick steps, 
the end of her skirt touched me.
From the unknown island of a heart 
came a sudden warm breath of spring.
A flutter of a flitting touch brushed me 
and vanished in a moment, 
like a torn flower petal blown in the breeze.
It fell upon my heart like a sigh 
of her body and whisper of her heart.

If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, 
come, O come to my lake.
The water will cling round your feet and babble its secret.
The shadow of the coming rain is on the sands, 
and the clouds hang low upon the blue lines of the trees 
like the heavy hair above your eyebrows.
I know well the rhythm of your steps, 
they are beating in my heart.
Come, O come to my lake, if you must fill your pitcher.

If you would be idle and sit listless 
and let your pitcher float on the water, 
come, O come to my lake. 
The grassy slope is green, and the wild flowers beyond number.
Your thoughts will stray out of your dark eyes 
like birds from their nests.
Your veil will drop to your feet.
Come, O come to my lake if you must sit idle.

If you would leave off your play and dive in the water, 
come, O come to my lake.
Let your blue mantle lie on the shore; 
the blue water will cover you and hide you.
The waves will stand a-tiptoe to kiss your neck 
and whisper in your ears.
Come, O come to my lake, if you would dive in the water.

If you must be mad and leap to your death, 
come, O come to my lake.
It is cool and fathomlessly deep.
It is dark like a sleep that is dreamless.
There in its depths nights and days are one, 
and songs are silence.
Come, O come to my lake, if you would plunge to your death.

Do not keep to yourself the [secret]1 of your heart, 
my friend!
Say it to me, only to me, in secret.
You who smile so gently, 
softly whisper, 
my heart will hear it,
not my ears.

The night is deep, 
the house is silent, 
the birds' nests are shrouded with sleep.
Speak to me 
through hesitating tears, 
through faltering smiles,
through sweet shame and pain, 
the secret of your heart!

Your questioning eyes are sad. 
They seek to know my meaning 
as the moon would fathom the sea.
I have bared my life before your eyes from end to end, 
with nothing hidden or held back. 
That is why you know me not.
If it were only a gem I could break it 
into a hundred pieces and string them 
into a chain to put on your neck.
If it were only a flower, round and small and sweet, 
I could pluck it from its stem to set it in your hair.
But it is a heart, my beloved. 
Where are its shores and its bottom?
You know not the limits of this kingdom, 
still you are its queen.
If it were only a moment of pleasure 
it would flower in an easy smile, 
and you could see it and read it in a moment.
If it were merely a pain it would melt in limpid tears, 
reflecting its inmost secret without a word.
But it is love, my beloved.
Its pleasure and pain are boundless, 
and endless its wants and wealth.
It is as near to you as your life, 
but you can never wholly know it.

Love, my heart longs day and night 
for the meeting with you -- for the meeting
that is like all devouring death. 

Sweep me away like a storm;
take everything I have; 
break open my sleep and plunder my dreams.
Rob me of my world. 

In that devastation, in the utter nakedness of spirit,
let us become one in beauty.
Alas for my vain desire! 
Where is this hope for union
except in thee, my God?

My love, once upon a time your poet 
launched a great epic in his mind.
Alas, I was not careful, 
and it struck your ringing anklets and came to grief.
It broke up into scraps of songs 
and lay scattered at your feet.
All my cargo of the stories of old wars 
was tossed by the laughing waves 
and soaked in tears and sank.
You must make this loss good to me, my love.
If my claims to immortal fame after death are shattered, 
make me immortal while I live.
And I will not mourn for my loss nor blame you.