On the eve

The Frost has not yet lifted his eyes from off the fields,

The forests still stand meek and mute—all leafless are their bowers;

And yet methinks I feel the earth already thrill and throb

Unsteadily and softly with the springing of the flowers.

The traces of chill, gloomy tears have not yet dried away,

The song of grief and suffering has not died upon the air,

Yet in my heart there swells again, sweet as the breath of spring,

The music of a joyous hope, a dream most glad and fair.

G. Galin

translated by Alice Stone Blackwell

(Picture: Decorative panel, Odilon Redon)

Come!

Come, bright blue holiday of spring,

With all thy hopes and fears,

And let my peace be broken,

And let my heart know tears!

Come! Spare not this weak spirit!

Wake all that sleeps to-day

In silence, and thy blossoms give

To strew along my way!

Life

No, no! I pray not for eternal sleep,

Nor sadly call on death its peace to give;

One wish alone, with flame unquenchable,

Burns in my soul—it is the wish to live.

The wintry blizzard, with its icy hands,

Thus to break down a living tree doth strive;

But, though it bends to earth with frozen boughs,

It fights and struggles on, that it may live.

G. Galin

translated by Alice Stone Blackwell

(Picture: Pine tree, Eyvind Earle)