Adam Roberts

My Two Daughters

In the cool chiaroscuro of a fine falling eve,
One like a swan and the other a dove—
Beautiful, both of them joyful—oh, sweet!
See, elder sister and younger complete,
Sat at the edge of the garden; with them
Bunched white carnations of long slender stem
Are set in a marble urn stirred by the breeze—
Leaning to watch them, a still living frieze,
And shivering in shade, at the rim of their dish,
Like a flutter of butterflies hanging in bliss.

[Château of] Terrasse, near Enghien, June 1842

2. ‘The poet decamps to the country…’

The poet decamps to the country—admires—
Adores—in his soul is the music of lyres;
And as he approaches, the flowers, each bloom,
With complexions that put ruby’s colour to shame,
Hues to outdazzle the peacock’s tail,
Tiny golden blossoms, and ones blue-royal,
Take on—whilst swaying their welcoming face—
Now a shy, drooping air, now coquettish bold grace,
And, befitting such beauties, with friendliest sway
They say ‘See! Our lover is passing this way!’
And, light- and shade-filled, with voices half-heard,
The great, deep-limbed trees that abide in the wood—
All of those ancients: yews, linden, and maple,
The willows all gnarled, oaks most venerable,
Elms with black boughs that thick moss grows about—
Like Ulemas after the Mufti comes out,
They bow low before him, all bending to earth
Drop down leafy heads and their ivy-beards’ ruff,
See the light shine from his brow, calmly streaming,
Whispering soft: “It’s he! Master of dreaming!”

1. To My Daughter

Oh, my child, as you see, I submit.
Do as I do: live apart from mankind;
Happy? Not that: triumph’s not it:
— Resigned! —

Be good, be gentle, pious brow high.
Just as day sets its heaven-flame low,
You, child, in the azure of your eye
Set your soul!

None are happy and none triumphant.
And ‘now’ is, for all, an incomplete touch;
The hour is a shadow, and life, my infant,
Is built of such.

Yes, all men are weary of their lot.
For all to be happy? —a dismal fate!—
All lacking. Alas!—and all we’ve got:
A mere mote.

That mere mote is what, for his chance,
Each seeks and desires all the while:
A word, a name, a bit of gold, a glance,
A smile!

The loveless king lacking happiness;
The vasty desert lacks drops of dew.
Man is a well where the void’s everness
Begins anew.

See those great thinkers gods arise in,
Heroes whose minds have dominated,
Names by which our darkened horizon
Is illuminated!

After having, like a torch’s beam,
Dazzled all, countlessly rayed,
They went away to seek in the tomb
A little shade.

Heaven, which knows we hurt and mourn
Takes pity on our vain clamorous years.
And every morning, it bathes our dawn
With its tears.

God enlightens our wanderings
As to what He is, how we’re inclined;
A law emerges from earthly things,
And from mankind.

You must abide by this one holy law,
Here—a law in reach of every soul:
To hate nothing, my child; to love the all,
Pity the whole!

Paris, October 1842.