The King closed his weary eyes.
And bloody rings begin to madly circle
Before his tightly closed and tired pupils.
Madly they dance while they upward slowly rise,
And others come, revolve and disappear,
The while the King would want to catch them all
To entertain his eyes with their lithe dancing.
From out the sea a wind blows o’er the plain,
The wind that breathes the plains’ perfumed breath,
The King dilates his wasted trembling nostrils,
To catch this scent . . . . The soul of grassy plains,
The lillies’ sighs, the scented breath of Roses . . .
Roses of Sharon, blessed by the priests
In sacred chants of Lord of Sabaoth,
Like love’s excitement is this breath of Roses,
Roses of Sharon, glorified in Cantos,
Sung in the evening by maidens around the fountain.
The sweetened odor sinks into his bosom
And wakes therein again an age-old pain;
His Miriam, this proud and dusky maid unconquered,
His Miriam, so mercilessly murdered,
His dream, his lonesome soul’s eternal grief,
For his Rose of Sharon yearns the grief-sick King.
T. POMPONIUS ATTICUS
’Tis true that by the will of God remains
Concealed our future life . . . but the knowing man,
Like a pilot steering carefully his craft
Avoids the dangers of protruding rocks,
Of destructive winds, treacherous sandy shoals,
And does not take to sail when tempests rage.
My own life’s course, my bosom friend
Cornelius Nepos, plans to perpetuate
Within his histories; Such picture serves
Not merely as remembrance but as an inspiration
And example: In such a manner we can will
The sum of our life’s experience to our heirs
And friends, as carefully collected treasures.
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