Thomas Aird (Томас Эрд)

The Translation of Beauty

Skirts of sunny-sifted showers!
There the wild bee,
How privileged he,
Childe of the yellow belt and bands of jet,
Sucking the nipples of the maiden flowers,
All honey-wet!
Drops and darkness eastward borne,
Glancingly go;
Thereon the Bow
Stands in the sea: from out the greening brine,
The white gull twinkles in the violet horn,
Bended divine.
Beauties of a summer day,
How soon ye die!
“Nay, through Man's eye
Glad soul we grow; in soul translated on,
We take our place, and live in praise for aye,
Round the White Throne.” 

1. Song the Seventh
2. Fitte the First
3. My Mother's Grave
4. To the Memory of a City Pastor
5. Song the Fourth

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