At living nights! Today I saw again my Helsinki;
What a dazzling sight, bathed in its citadels of light,
At which time, didst I spend more grateful hours
That may have come and sought me after dawn.
I was dreaming fast by then, lulled by yon sleepy
rain striding down outside, with a softened cheer;
A mild one, more like kind water’s affluent soul,
Had the skies no more repelled its sight, with beer
And the remnants of their rebuked past sins,
Which once kept feeding on mere tyrannous thoughts
That the sun too emitted; but how didst such coldness
Let itself be corrupted, maintained by the amiss main
And savage terrain of the sun, and be sorely divided
once more across its terrible sphere, and wonder:
How couldst no cold remain, whilst ‘tis England;
And thus no evil couldst be new wherein,
nor regarded as trembling nor filthy anew—
In the hours that hath faded, by their uneven minutes;
And there is no honour left to revolt against its wit,
While all transforms into an unripened fatal mistake,
And there is no joy left to witness its new form,
And the remnant of love gone in its disposition,
When, one by one, the most propitious beam awakes
Offering one of its most precarious gleams,
But so shakes me by the impatience of the heat;
The poet has so to run to escape its crunching wit,
Forgetting the poem, forsaking what’s been writ;
And what is left but a sorrow from the merciful night,
The poetry too lost its favourable Knight.

Where is but the Helsinki I hath loved, about me?
The Helsinki that hath been in love with me;
And shyly flirted with me, stealing my love for days.
All my past that hath come to a halt, and with its shadow apace
I hath not one right to reclaim my solid thoughts;
I want to be the radiant snow again, mild at all paces
Haunted by ev’ry cold breath so divine, and taste
The hieroglyphics of my sad visions so succinctly;
And the philology of our violent youth so fervently.
For such sunless hauntings too are painfully severe,
And such nightmares that existed shan’t be spare,
And those shan’t I suffer myself by the pores of such dreams;
And with a radiant finger shalt I send back which see me—
The eyes of our promising heaven have now awakened,
I can see their unpierced veins through thy hands, o Helsinki!
Why is it that salubrious remembrance of such sullen hours
to give me the unwanted comfort, and unwritten silence,
I might not be worthy of thine alone, ah, but who shalt shine
During my windblown summers here, whenst the short-lived heat
Hath but been too much, and ringing through a tampered light;
I hath lost the list of odes that thou canst cast on my soul.
What an everlasting shame, to lay here alone without thee;
But who is a scattered leaf like me to complain, but to hide,
I hath lost all my steadiness to the Northern Light.

To the blue concave by yon awesome nullified cavern;
And the lifted nectar tree behind the cedar grove,
And the rippling summer river with its yellow brook
That hath been lovely to me and my wintry shine;
And the gate with such illustrious paints that illumine
Every wandering sight, righteous in whose last morals,
How happy I am, to be amidst such wondrous sighs!
How shalt I but stand about and entertain my feet,
The itchy feet that shan’t stand to the euphoria about me,
But feelest the slightest thought of thine with hesitation,
But in dreams, upset again to behold thee gone.
What a consoled hysteria I hath but made, o Helsinki!
A little further, my love, didst I tell my love silently,
Although all remains a whisper in t’is hesitant chest,
That shan’t be resistant again once it meets its fate;
A sweet fate that shan’t one steer nor disapprove,
For such a fate is neither sick nor faulty, at once,
For at such a view all shalt be put at ease, or in delight,
The moon cheers at their apparition forms and starlights.
And for my love shalt I wait at seven tonight,
An hour that is close to my Helsinki’s sweet entrance,
For hath England halted and my frightened love ceased,
And sweetened what was not sweet for my love and me,
And as bitter to my hope and hungered cleavage once.
I am, as ever, faltering in my speed like an innocent child;
I am to play from bough to bough, that I can comfort
And jump from leap to leap, as I wish to bring back alive
The thousand weeds and summer squirrels that used to
cry bitterly. They cried a lot in the open space, at night;
Oft’ didst I hear their florid steps across the unseen clearing
And voices weep through the wronged greenery, wailing.
I wouldst be good to them as I hath been good in dreams,
To make ‘em all precious darlings, and set back forth, o sweet
Waking into the night of moonlight and the Northern Lights
To comfort the scratch, and all that injures within me
And to bring justice to those who wronged in thee,
That all can sleep again amidst the high strolling distance;
I wouldst behold my love again, and beneath the confined air,
To live and love on yon gifted ege, laden with art and care.
On a ground so deep, and tunnel so rich with ice and ease,
Hath I been in too much haste, to resemble the mortal rose,
Hath I been ungrateful to my robbed love, and prose;
Hath I loved my youth in such a dizzy way, in a daze;
Hath I deserted such myths, and failed my task to praise.

They all bid me fly away and leave, but fly to thee;
Those sons of dark innocence, unvirgin bones to every sigh.
What is love to them, but a silvery, captivating moan?
What is love but two robes unchained, all too ******,
What is love but a hastened sight, a hurried moon,
What is love but not wedded, nor one to grown—
What is love but unchaste, too frenetic to love,
Not a painful comfort, nor a happy sacrifice,
Not a bough so pendulous and fair, nor a fall so weird,
Not a bizarre ecstasy; yet an ecstasy that quenches,
Not a bard, nor any of the throes in his fine poems,
Not even a wing of love itself, that often cries in bareness,
Not a humble show that fulfills, in its drop of moral rain;
Not a reminiscence of dust, nor a soap of remembrance.
Love, being a dire sight to ‘all, those cross creatures,
Love in there never held me by my hand, nor my ill chest,
All the love there—a pale pain, a bland mast of mess,
And all greasy misery is not pain, but a beheld love,
A love to see, a love that grows not in flooded snow.
All the love there—a blank sight, a tasteless life,
A love that feels not the feeble, but stainless souls!
A love that is too mean that none canst hear me,
And who guesses but such a meadow cannot see me,
Nor catch my sight by the ballade of innocuous thoughts.
O, Helsinki, I hath but such vast words in my throat,
O, Helsinki, hail us poets with the fall of ****** snow!
May us be weird, and boast to the condemned world,
May us be heat, may us bring whom a liar curse!

Every fantasy of the night stills beneath me;
Crushed within the glossy bark of yon midnight heat,
Closed by the laughter of a dominant brutal heart,
Chained by its own sinful soul, that cannot love.
And never by the night turns into uncounted falls;
Nor grows into a more promising canto in my sonnet,
For who is heat but an untold chaos, even to a baby’s ears,
There is no shelter but wanted by the gone England,
Nor a further fate to come, to be run across its river.
All English gold hath but revolted its noble thoughts,
And most of the time, ‘tis only daggers and swords
That make, and foragingly confuse its infused time;
I hath outnumbered the shrieking sins within me,
And too my art, attaching itself to me by the faltering light,
But now the most seen, the most bewitching and heartfelt.
While I hold thee to my heart, and feel there the lightest thought
That thou art the sole gathering of joys one sought
Propelling the night to stop its frozen tears, and listen;
That there is a song in such fair air, there is heaven.
And who shalt sink into the stars on the grass, but me;
Who shalt hear with my seas with love, but my poetry,
Who seals me better but my nauseous books, and lose
Who in its villainous imagination but hears me, my prose.

I shalt come back to my sanguine night in the cold,
To retreat and release back the dim saluted forms,
That oft’ fade and show themselves again in one’s poems.
Who says ‘tis not found there—a dazzling melody;
That such a beauteous parody is not from Paradise,
That a blushed cheek is ever proud and wise,
That fresh air is unseen, and honour cannot be felt;
Here, but not with the English nor American melody,
Nor couldst I be tempted by the tunes aloof in their air,
Who else than I think they are not a fair society,
Who else than I think they own not their riches,
Who else than I think a colour as which shan’t burn.
Who else there is not a tune in an idle poem;
Who else shan’t tune in, as though poems were not poetry.
Who else than turns to love me, by the slumber
o’ such lyrics, who shall be with me forever;
I want to bury myself in such charms, o mine,
To show the sun the honest hours of every love,
Though love itself canst become faulty at times!
Ah, Helsinki, all is abashed and yet not too bashful;
All that was bashful hath grown beastly, outside of us,
And so what is preaching now but a fatal lyrical sight,
And what is speech but a forgotten poem alight,
Who is Anonymous, who are they to teach them right;
Who is loneliness, who shall perish and faint with fright,
Who shall disappear, and such despair entertains the sea,

Who am I, but a doubted truth on my solitary voyage;
Who are the dusks aglow, but an obsolete sight and dish,
Who are the young scarlet tides to fade, before the buds,
Who are the dusky little lilacs to resemble the rose.
Who are the pure white tints that ice showed me,
But the hidden pinks the evils want not to see,
And the inherited northern youth, who shalt be with me.
Who shalt I be, but a silent poet to thee, o Helsinki,
Who am I to have, but such reminiscent little words of me.
To have and have not visions, the one found in my rhymes;
To writ and writ not again, as speech may haunt me,
To hear and hear not words, as thoughts come to follow,
But to read and writ again, as dreams decipher my verse.
To discharge all epics unreal, whilst they are sublime,
To emit all that remains, all visible and verbal emotions,
May I be absorbed in all my wonderings, and my dismay;
To be with the Northern Light, and the vanished world of days.