From The Portuguese

I

When I lived in the village of youth

There were lilies in all the orchards,

Flowers in the orange-gardens

For brides to wear in their hair.

It was always sunshine and summer,

Roses at every lattice,

Dreams in the eyes of maidens,

Love in the eyes of men.

When I lived in the village of youth

The doors, all the doors, stood open;

We went in and out of them laughing,

Laughing and calling each other

To shew each other our fairings,

The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,

The new rose, the new lover.

Now I live in the town of age

Where are no orchards, no gardens.

Here, too, all the doors stand open,

But no one goes in or goes out.

We sit alone by the hearthstone

Where memories lie like ashes

Upon a hearth that is cold;

And they from the village of youth

Run by our doorsteps laughing,

Calling, to shew each other

The new shawl, the new comb, the new fan,

The new rose, the new lover.

Once we had all these things -

We kept them from the old people,

And now the young people have them

And will not shew them to us -

To us who are old and have nothing

But the white, still, heaped-up ashes

On the hearth where the fire went out

A very long time ago.

II

I had a mistress; I loved her.

She left me with memories bitter,

Corroding, eating my heart

As the acid eats into the steel

Etching the portrait triumphant.

Intolerable, indelible,

Never to be effaced.

A wife was mine to my heart,

Beautiful flower of my garden,

Lily I worshipped by day,

Scented rose of my nights.

Now the night wind sighing

Blows white rose petals only

Over the bed where she sleeps

Dreamless alone.

I had a son; I loved him.

Mother of God, bear witness

How all my manhood loved him

As thy womanhood loved thy Son!

When he was grown to his manhood

He crucified my heart,

And even as it hung bleeding

He laughed with his bold companions,

Mocked and turned away

With laughter into the night.

Those three I loved and lost;

But there was one who loved me

With all the fire of her heart.

Mine was the sacred altar

Where she burnt her life for my worship.

She was my slave, my servant;

Mine all she had, all she was,

All she could suffer, could be.

That was the love of my life,

I did not say, "She loves me";

I was so used to her love

I never asked its name,

Till, feeling the wind blow cold

Where all the doors were left open,

And seeing a fireless hearth

And the garden deserted and weed-grown

That once was full of flowers for me,

I said, "What has changed?  What is it

That has made all the clocks stop?"

Thus I asked and they answered:

"It is thy mother who is dead."

And now I am alone.

My son, too, some day will stand

Here, where I stand and weep.

He too will weep, knowing too late

The love that wrapped round his life.

Dear God spare him this:

Let him never know how I loved him,

For he was always weak.

He could not endure as I can.

Mother, my dear, ask God

To grant me this, for my son!