By Charlotte Mew
Toll no bell for me, dear Father dear Mother,
Waste no sighs;
There are my sisters, there is my little brother
Who plays in the place called Paradise,
Your children all, your children for ever;
But I, so wild,
Your disgrace, with the queer brown face, was never,
Never, I know, but half your child!
In the garden at play, all day, last summer,
Far and away I heard
The sweet “tweet-tweet” of a strange new-comer,
The dearest, clearest call of a bird.
It lived down there in the deep green hollow,
My own old home, and the fairies say
The word of a bird is a thing to follow,
So I was away a night and a day.
One evening, too, by the nursery fire,
We snuggled close and sat round so still,
When suddenly as the wind blew higher,
Something scratched on the window-sill,
A pinched brown face peered in–I shivered;
By Mary Carolyn Davies
Dryad, hidden in this tree!
Break your bonds and talk to me!
No one’s watching, only peep
From your cave! The town’s asleep!
No one knows I stand here, so
Come! for they will never know!
Tell me what you think of here
When the moon is sharp and clear,
When the clouds are over you,
When the ground is wet with dew.
Dryad, are you happy, say!
Do you like to live this way?
I will keep your secrets well,
I will never, never tell!
Dryad, hidden in our tree,
Come, oh, come and talk to me!
By Edith Södergran
Wandering clouds have fastened themselves to the mountain’s edge,
for endless hours they stand in silence and wait:
if a chivvying wind wants to strew them over the plain
they should rise with the sun over the snow of the summits.
Wandering clouds have set themselves in the way of the sun,
the mourning pennants of everyday hang so heavily,
down in the valley life walks with dragging feet,
the sounds of a grand piano sing from open windows.
Strip upon strip is the valley’s motley carpet,
firm as sugar is the heights’ eternal snow…
The winter steps softly down into the valley.
The giants smile.
By Edith Södergran
No bird strays here into my hidden corner,
no black swallow that brings longing,
no white gull that tides a storm…
In the shadow of the rocks my wildness stays awake,
ready to fly at the slightest whisper, at approaching steps…
Soundless and blue is my world, blessed…
I have a door to all four winds.
I have a golden door to the east – for love that never comes,
I have a door for day and another for sadness,
I have a door for death – that one is always open.