Toarnă, o, toarnă sufletul acela rupt în cântec, Toarnă-l în luciul de rumeguș al nopții, Prin aerul cu pini de catifea în înserare, Și lasă valea

I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled. But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them. And I hunger. I

Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones In their hip-pockets as a thing that\'s

The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue The setting sun, too indolent to hold A lengthened tournament for flashing gold, Passively darkens for

Spatial depths of being survive The birth to death recurrences Of feet dancing on earth of sand; Vibrations of the dance survive The sand; the

Hair--braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher\'s rope, Eyes--fagots, Lips--old scars, or the first red blisters, Breath--the last sweet

Pour O pour that parting soul in song, O pour it in the sawdust glow of night, Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night, And let the