Bona Fides

Sweet, oh sweet, from the fields to-day

Wafts the breath of the new-mown hay.

Sewing away in a happy dream,

I sit in the porch with my long white seam.

The very silence is like a tune,

Sung to the golden afternoon.

While the house is still, and the meadows lie

Fast asleep 'neath the radiant sky.

Only at intervals, now and then,

I hear the farmer call to his men.

And the farmer's voice is dear to me

As ever a mortal voice can be.

You may talk of the love of youth and maid,

Of two in childhood, perhaps, who played

Together by rill and fount and tree,

Till their hearts had grown one heart to be;

You may tell of the loyal faith and life

Of the husband dear and the gentle wife;

But the widowed mother leans closest on

The tender strength of her only son.

Ah! what if that farmer of mine one day

Should seek him a bride, as well he may,

And bring her home! Would I be loath,

Mother and friend, to live for both?

For somehow the scent of the new-mown hay

Carries me back to a far-off day,

When my silver hair was in waves of brown,

When my bashful glances kept looking down,

And swift to my cheek, in a sudden red,

Mounted the blush, at a soft word said.

Truly the days of my youth were sweet,

Ere the path was rough to my toiling feet.

Truly the morning of life was blest,

And yet in sooth is the evening best;

For I've learned the lesson that joys must fly,

And the proudest hopes, like flowers, die.

But God abides in his heaven, and he

Will never forget to care for me.

Sweet, oh sweet, is the new-mown hay,

Wafting its breath from the fields to-day.

Sweet is the golden afternoon,

With its silence rhythmic as a tune,

And dear to the soul is the calm content

Of hours in grateful trusting spent.

New-Mown Hay by Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

Quando Ismália enlouqueceu,

Pôs-se na torre a sonhar...

Viu uma lua no céu,

Viu outra lua no mar.

No sonho em que se perdeu,

Banhou-se toda em luar...

Queria subir ao céu,

Queria descer ao mar...

E, no desvario seu,

Na torre pôs-se a cantar...

Estava perto do céu,

Estava longe do mar...

E como um anjo pendeu

As asas para voar...

Queria a lua do céu,

Queria a lua do mar...

As asas que Deus lhe deu

Ruflaram de par em par...

Sua alma subiu ao céu,

Seu corpo desceu ao mar...

XXXIII - Ismália Poema integrante da série As Canções.(1923)

 Alphonsus de Guimaraens 

Oh we've got to trust

one another again

in some essentials.

Not the narrow little

bargaining trust

that says: I'm for you

if you'll be for me. -

But a bigger trust,

a trust of the sun

that does not bother

about moth and rust,

and we see it shining

in one another.

Oh don't you trust me,

don't burden me

with your life and affairs; don't

thrust me

into your cares.

But I think you may trust

the sun in me

that glows with just

as much glow as you see

in me, and no more.

But if it warms

your heart's quick core

why then trust it, it forms

one faithfulness more.

And be, oh be

a sun to me,

not a weary, insistent

personality

but a sun that shines

and goes dark, but shines

again and entwines

with the sunshine in me

till we both of us

are more glorious

and more sunny.

Trust by D.H.Lawrence