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TRANSLATIONS FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET.
THE MAY NIGHT.
MUSE.
Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre ;
The buds are bursting on the wild sweet-briar.
To-night the Spring is born — the breeze takes fire.
Expectant of the dawn behold the thrash,
Perched on the fresh branch of the first green bush ;
Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre.
POET.
How black it looks within the Tale !
I thought a muffled form did sail
Above the tree-tops, through the air.
It seemed from yonder field to pass.
Its foot just grazed the tender grass ;
A vision strange and fair it was.
It melts and is no longer there.
MUSE.
My poet, take thy lyre ; upon the lawn
Night rocks the zephyr on her veiled, soft breast.
