Translated by Jessie Fauset
THE lonely pool sleeps in the depth of the glade
At the foot of a slope which its beauty discloses;
And the whispering reeds make a rustling retreat
Which the stream lips or leaves as it wakes or reposes.
The heather erects a dense rampart of green
To conceal the sweet tide which reflects in its deeps
The tops of tall trees, and this one labor done,
Forgetting aught else, dreams and placidly sleeps.
Now and then comes a bird—a blackcap or a swallow,
Which with its swift flight makes the mute, formless hollow
Of solitude ring with a shrill, plaintive sound.
Its wings barely skim the pool drowsy with slumber,
Yet small, eager waves circling wide, without number,
Haste to die 'mid the pitying reeds grouped around.
Published in The Crisis, September 1921