I am in love with the brightest days;
That all rots and dies of their sins,
In what is called their burning minds,
In what is called the merit of mine.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all souls adore and salute sunshine,
That all is destruction that I can see,
That no pain is to be borne beneath me.

I am in love with the brightest days;
On which all are a mess less faithful,
That they are the betrayal they meet;
I am the destruction the poet writs.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For such days are dead to compassion,
Neither literature it is, nor passion,
None of the good poetry shall remain.

I am in love with the brightest days;
The roseate joys of the evil moon,
And the yellowness that writhes like me,
And shall be drowned, like me.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And the leaning branches that sway,
The leaves and roots that soon forget,
The unchained heart that shuns truth.

I am in love with the brightest days;
In me is a sanguine fear of faith,
A blinding rose and denial of joy,
A hesitant fire of madness.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I delight not in sweet foreign ways,
I am a shunned temper myself, from within—
I am still blind, I am still not seen.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That no rain remains and clouds are sins,
That the skies are but no flattery to me;
That roads are too blind and shan’t see.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For my shine makes it hard to read thy poem,
And shall blind utterly verdicts and prose,
I am the evil bud of the devil’s rose.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For none in coldness shall stay shimmering,
And who shall forbid the curse of snow,
I shall not hide at dusk, and in the morning.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For no sun in sight shan’t see tomorrow,
And what malice hides by the snow,
With gruesome lies by the forgiving rain.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For all favours me, a great stupor,
I shall deliver those impending pains,
I shall make decay all that remains.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For all is tumult that they can’t see,
For none in their dark nest shall see me,
For none of their joys stays with me.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I crave for all poignant walks and ways,
And no misery to me is deprecating,
And no lyric to me is love.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That I can but writ my own verses,
While ‘tis in my fate, my being not,
The fatal destiny I was born for.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For all the dark is too cold to see,
Nor an ecstasy to my rabid hands,
Just a minor of the vile rain.

I am in love with the brightest days;
All cold things are spoilt for me to see,
Nor an indulgent touch to my senses,
A hindrance to the earth’s lenses.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That thy dark love has failed me to see,
And not by thee shall I want to be,
I want to be the brightest on my own.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That the devil is but all over me,
That my own mind has lived without me,
That my sight is numb, that I cannot see.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That the bad is born, and grows in me,
That my own hatred has left me,
That my conscience has fallen away.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That my sullen memory has hated me,
Leaving me for the rain in my wake,
Leaving me for the winter it makes.

I am in love with the brightest days;
For the sultry rain lulls me to sleep
And the night makes me weep so deep,
That I but fake myself in my slumber.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who teases the stars awake
While the night makes us love so true,
That I but anger thy verses anew.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who makes the sky so blue,
All is hatred in my red chamber,
All is hurt, an eternal wound.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And whose words but disable thy poems,
When all I do is but shine on who writ,
When I shan’t ruin the words that meet.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And whose spell makes daytime brilliant,
With a shine so idyllic in its doom,
With a pink shade so thick as idioms.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who makes daylight so true,
With rainwater so awash with gloom,
With dusk so laden with tears.

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who makes fall foliage appear,
With such dryness that is ever here,
With such droughts that are near?

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who shows the morning anew
And makes you swim across sweet daylight,
Who weeps for you outta cold nights?

I am in love with the brightest days;
And guess who makes daytime so sweet
That all souls roam about on their feet,
Who shall make the world alive?

I am in love with the brightest days;
I admire my soul’s reddish complex;
But others leave in their flamboyance,
Neglecting light by their arrogance.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That I have attained my shades anew
That I have my rose-gold to me,
That all is physical and lovely.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all is alive and sees again,
That all is the heart of me and man,
That all is ****** and beauty.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all that remains is putrid lust,
With a passion for flesh and dust,
With tongues on thine, and lips on mine.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all that hurts becomes love,
That to desire has love awakened,
That love is flesh, love has shortened.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all that pains becomes joy,
And there is misery in delights,
I only find love on moaning nights.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That the wrong has my saluted joy,
And all thy warmth shall turn to heat,
A heat that assaults and shan’t die.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That only evilness shall see my yule,
That only light leaves all breathless,
That only redness entertains me.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That moronic love shall foam their ways,
That all are lies that can destroy,
That all devours the sweetness of joy.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That such love of theirs comes from within,
Where I’ll be an unfaltering pain,
And my joys are a writhing abyss.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That I shall be the one to laugh,
To live and love of my own accord,
To sing a song with my weird chords.

I am in love with the brightest days;
The ones of everlasting fears,
That one shall be their own poor peril,
To come and go and shall come again.

I am in love with the brightest days;
The one in which no more can cheer,
That one shall consume their own evil,
To go and fade and have gone again.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I am not a beast to their pale sight,
Nor are they beastly to me;
They feed off my venom and my beauty.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I am not a poison to their light,
Nor are they poisonous to me;
They drink off my heat and my sea.

I am in love with the brightest days,
I am not too hesitant nor bashful,
I am not a love nor truth like rain,
I am not one of those Northern souls.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I am not the shy moon nor the sky,
I am not the bold nor the right,
I am the sin, not the Northern Light.

I am in love with the brightest days;
I am in love with not being love,
I am in love with not bringing love,
I am in love with not feeding love.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That all love shall be gone for good,
Nor are there facts to remain in truth,
All shall stay and die, as they should.

I am in love with the brightest days;
That love is pain all the night and day
That any living form shan’t live for long,
They are to fade within my robbed song.

You drift away from each of us
Before you are sufficient;
We would long for you to live on,
We would not want you to leave.

You are too brief to understand
Way too voiceless to speak;
A threat to many who profess
A question that hearts raise.

You live too shortly in your way
With your flaws by the blue moon;
You are fast like a flowing river,
And with you is the eternal winter.

You are not a flawless toil
Incarnated in bones and soil;
You swarm the sins of my *****
The fire of my soul, and means.

You are bare as I’ll have my way
And yet you have none to say;
You are soundless, as I remember,
Shy and dominant as I recall.

And as though I have you in my veins
As my bare chest has reminded me;
As though I have no sins to close
As though I am so vacant as a rose.

And as though I am like a lavender,
I am never as stunning as a rose,
For the rose has threatened to ****,
For the rose has a bad will.

And as though the rose has a soul,
But with no age, with no cure
With no love to love me,
With the immortal love I desire.

And as though I want it to be,
As though I shan’t be jealous,
The rose and age have been zealous,
I am hurried by my time for thee.

And as though I want me to see,
That age is not cordial to me,
That age has but not my soul,
That age has given me my world.

As though I kept my fate in me,
As though I had it all alone,
As though it could ever last,
As though I could stay alive.

As though I kept my soul within me,
As though the moon could speak,
As though I could not feel worried,
As though I could still live.

As though I shall not die,
As though death shan’t cry,
As though I am idle to you,
As though I am too chaste to live.

As though poems cannot write,
As though I, the poet, shan’t tell,
As though words emit no light,
As though they shan’t wish me well.

As though all notions are mute,
As though no sound could speak.
As though all sights are gone,
As though jokes are not alone.

As though all notions are idle,
As though all poems are riddles,
As though our age is immortal,
As though our tongues shall last.

As though my age does not bleed,
And not blame all my sins on me,
My ends are not bleak but to meet,
Merry in a sense, troubling to be.

As though my age matters not,
I’ll live away my story short,
As though I am the poet of the day,
As though I am the sin of my words.

As though my age worries me not,
My passion shall let me free,
I and my verses shall wander not,
I and they are what we can be.

As though my age believes me not,
My stories ring but true to you,
I am the wise poet of honour,
Excite my songs and sing my hours.

As though my age stays beside me,
I shall not cheer but trust in me,
I cannot feel but I always see,
I cannot hear but feel at ease.

As though my love believes me not,
My heart is filled with loud cheer,
That in their own sense is aloof,
That in their sight is love.

As though my age shall last,
My countenance hast faith in me,
I am none that the world shall see,
The sole music of my naïve joy.

As though my age shall not fade,
As though I shall forever sing,
I shall cherish my everlasting sin,
I shall cherish what your poems mean.

As though my age shall not wane,
I shall cherish the eyes of storms,
Witness the benign shower of rain,
Feast on the innocent red night.

As though my age shall stay bright,
I shall strive to enjoy the light,
Bury myself deep in cold sunlight,
Watching the brilliant grass at night.

As though my age shall be here,
I shall excite the sage in me,
That a poet is I want to be,
That all shall last on a sunny day.

As though my age shall be with me,
I am the poet that one can be,
Stun the world with my tunes,
See the earth through the moon.

As though my age shall be near,
I shall choose but to live here,
I shan’t **** away nor move,
For a joy so soft that is a rose.

As though my age but hears,
I shall opt not to leave,
I shall still stay here aft’ long,
Playing back my old summer song.

As though my age shan’t falter,
I am the poetess that writs,
I have funny ears and wits,
I have a joke in my verse forever.

As though my age shall still live,
I am the poet that wants to hear,
Sings the tunes that are not present,
Reads the warm steps of the past.

As though my age shall triumph,
I’ll live and love inside my poems,
For this world is but an insulting drama,
An indulgent swoon of fake lovers.

As though my age shall remain,
None of such lives smells like rain,
That all that perish shall die again,
And many shall die of their own lust.

As though my age shall not swerve,
As though our lives are not curbed,
As though immortals are an excitement,
As though fate is an impediment.

As though my age is not tired,
As though my age is pure,
All I can think of is my nights,
None that I have seen is true.

As though my age is not wrinkled,
As though all is not lost in years,
As though all feet stay young,
As though skin stays fresh.

As though my age is bare,
As though aging is dead,
As though death shan't ring,
As though hearts shan't sing.

As though my age is idle,
As though my age is pure.
As though I could handle,
As though love is awake.

As though my age is here,
As though days shan’t pass,
As though my age shan’t die,
As though my age is love.

As though love is honest,
As though love is pure,
As though love does not deny,
As though love does not lie.

As though love is childish,
As though love is destiny,
As though love is festive,
As though love is poetry.

As though love is not age,
As though love stays alive,
As though love deeply feels,
As though love is not ill.

I must not cry at every impediment,
For ‘tis belittling to the universe.
I should cherish my mortal being,
A little tear I should not shed.

I must not be void of sanity,
I must not hear, I must not love.
They must not hear my story,
Their love should be enough.

I hear their thoughts and silenced cries,
I sense their fears and wearied lies.
For love is a battle when ‘tis a wound,
For love bleeds not in its sound.

I avoid with them, but pass with them,
Through a gate of dead morning dews,
I see no sign of a graceful poem,
I see about me nothing new.

What about their tearless sights,
Too distant from the Northern Light,
That ensuing misery is admired,
That a corrupted joy is desired.

What about their endless lies,
With such discordant daylights,
That all beasts are evil no more,
That love is not good, but worse.

What about their idle truth,
The unsaid myths that ring mute,
The unspoken ways that watch,
The false that I should touch.

I must proceed, I must not awake,
But in haste have they made mistakes,
That all other sins are soon enticed,
Growing alight at the harmful nights.

And my lips soon wake with fear,
All innocence sounds and seems weird,
That I speak with the truth of a liar,
That there is no fact in my words.

And my heart soon races with tears,
All justice being put backward,
That all normality is not here,
That I have been torn apart.

Who are they to find but a reward,
When white blankness is not a coward,
And who are they to estimate a bliss,
For love does not demand a kiss.

Who are they to find the stars,
When they have not gazed upright,
Nor are they alive through the night,
To see the ice, the Northern Light.

Who are their souls so belittling,
Their voices neither grasp nor sing,
Who are they to read a butterfly,
Who are they to find grace.

And my pen is not about me,
Nor are my words mine to see,
None is thrilled, not by my verse,
Then how shall I writ, or converse?

And my books are not beside me,
Nor are my pages there to be,
None is intrigued, not by my words,
Then how I shall attract at first?

And my poem sleeps far from me,
Leaving me for the heat and sea,
Leaning on the sun and its rays,
Falling in love with the sick days.

How should I atone for my sins,
How should I deserve to be seen,
That life without thee is no delight,
That ‘tis a breed of injustice.

How should I atone for my foes,
To remove all woes and cursed throes,
How should I turn back my ideal,
How should I see again my fall.

How should I atone for my love,
To live and die and breathe and laugh,
To live my tales by thee alone,
To be the poet and youth of my own.

The sun has gone and it all feels good;
Autumn has started in a fair dry mood.
Autumn has always been dutiful and fair,
I love its appealing night air.

The wind has stayed and dripped more;
A promise to my fall and ripe words,
Who is a poet but one with fine taste,
Who is she but the offspring of grace.

And the poet within me screamed;
Late words are rich and but not a dream,
I jolted awake at a dark night,
I saved my soul and my autumn light.

And the poet within me told;
There are too many verses untold,
Their idle fate shall not awaken them,
And without touch, they shall not bloom.

And the poet repeated many times;
That I ought to retreat to my fine rhymes,
To salute my old self with renewed breath,
With a conscious mind and eager taste.

And the poet stressed her meaning;
My verses are sought for their singing,
That I should soon shove myself awake,
That there are too many tales to make.

I grew wakeful in two mere seconds;
There was a fair line for me to see,
I opened my eyes fast that morn,
I sensed a new rhythm about me.

I jumped alive with freshened breath;
I stirred to life on the sun’s death.
Nor is my love alive, no more,
I have less to love, but not my words.

Falsehood has left me too accustomed;
Everything is false outside of my poem,
That I could live and love but my own tales,
That I could only breathe within their veils.

But who is to love me when love is awake;
Who is to dream of me behind the lake,
Who is to notice the rustling of my leaves,
Who is to read me when love lives.

And who is to say my love lies in words;
For all has been a joke within these worlds,
All is fire and fury inside their jealousy,
The ecstasy I cannot abolish, and free.

I am accustomed to their boasts of gold;
I am too idle to further their stories told,
I am the love and life of my own ends,
The heart of my mortal fate, and hands.

I am the idle daughter of toil and madness;
I am the author of all beings and darkness,
All sight to me is youth and remarkable,
All winds are idyllic, all ruins are humble.

I am the foliage that never rusts;
I am the joy that shall never pass.
I am the delight that goes with you,
I am the nigh sigh that is real and true.

Even the beastly suns cannot reach me;
And their scorching wit that shan’t see.
They all shall shrink in the mirth of words,
They all shall run and flee the woods.

Even such misery deters me not;
Nor such tales I have not offered,
I am sane in my every effort,
I am true to my every word.

Even such falsehood wanes me not;
Nor such poems I have writ,
Nor the tales I have told,
Nor the two fateful ends that meet.

And has the shaking of minds left me unshaken;
And the lies of love leaving me untouched.
Who says but being loved is not a burden,
Who says that mortal joys shall ever last.

Who says that being in love is not a torture;
Who says that it takes minutes, not hours to love,
Who says that love is certain, love is sure,
Who says love is not a cry in love.

Who says love is not a morbid show;
Who says love shall always hear and know,
Who says but love shall never go,
Who says but love shall stay today, and tomorrow.

Who says love loves in its blood-red chamber;
Who says love is not bound to a curse.
Who says love is striking in its own light,
Who says love can but see throughout the night.

Who says love is not a part of sleep;
Who says love is awake, when ‘tis asleep.
Who says love can adore oneself too deep,
Who says love is at the night hours, to weep.

Who says love is too awake to be blind;
Who says love is watchful in her own mind.
Who says love is not but a murky statue,
Who says love can awake much of me and you.

I am too frail in my own literature;
Having tortured by daylight’s rude slumbers,
I fell in love on their dull torture,
Forced to feel on the sound of words.

I am too blind to sweetly love, and hold;
I am a mind ‘twas once too cold,
A ****** that was a disgrace to thee,
Thou wert incapable of loving me.

I am a threat to creation;
The betrayal of love and its judgments,
The death of merit and attachments,
The gaiety of evil and separation.

I am a deceit to gluttony and lust;
That a sign of madness would soon disrupt,
That all should remain a vain attempt,
That would soon confuse love and lust.

I am a disgrace to existence;
That all I have loved is everlasting pain,
That all is but a blind conscience,
That all is heat and there shan’t be rain.

I am untold in my own fortune;
That all is not a story nor tune,
That all is rage but not a tale told,
That all is heat, not a day cold.

And there is literature but no love;
For words themselves shall suffice,
For my heart is not ripe, not enough;
For my heart does not understand lies.

And there is not fathoming but madness;
Harm and anger in their strange noise,
Tired of their idleness,
Sick of their ill bliss.

And there is not found a conclusion;
That all is rigorous but shan’t know,
I have lived but a sour oblivion,
That all is present, but not tomorrow.

Your disgrace has had thee mortal, my sire;
You rushed me mindlessly, to my desire,
Only to disengage me in a warned hurry,
On a wild night, in the kiss of unasked beauty.

Your **** has failed thee alone, my prince;
You have made yourself endure your lost vitality,
And have eliminated my love ever since,
Your love is coarse, your heart is not chilly.

I tell thee, just give ‘em more and more;
For papers and pens do not like us anymore,
And so our being shall mean none else to one,
My love has left me tense all on my own.

I tell thee, just give ‘em all your pulse;
Empty my brown heart from its hard curses,
You fade one night, and glow anew and come again,
You were here at once, but dispersed and loved in vain.

I tell thee, just unleash all your freedom;
Make the crowd love thee t’is time, at random,
For our passages have love meaning no more,
Nor the remembrance that once lived short.

Shall I attempt t’is time, to seize and bind ye?
What is the value of an illusion, when all is masked,
When ‘tis but the savage product of a dream,
When all of mine is renewed pain, and limbs.

Shall I bring my unknown poetry to thee?
Yearning for a bliss so damp and unloved,
But those beside, whose songs bear filthy flattery,
Sought naked by thee, in adultery through the night and day.

Shall I bring my poems to who shan’t read,
Shall I be seen as they console, as they converse.
Shall I be greedy at breast, while easy at heart
Shall I be present in my toil, in my worried verse.

Shall I be a verse to thee myself, and read me,
Shall I be a sacrifice to all glory and again.
Shall I make my whole age belong to you,
Shall I undo my fate, and wish all was true.

Shall I fight at sunset, and come back at dawn,
Shall I see what I have written and done,
Shall I compare us to the morning dew,
I have found no love so fond as you.

But who says you are a child and immortal still,
You are what the long crowd is wanting,
The vanity of what they are doing,
The yule and beer the bold blood feels.

Who says you have been a fond one at all,
Who whispers such thoughts behind the hall,
That they have seen but too rapidly,
With a pride too big, to truly hear and see.

And who says you have been a lover to me,
You have turned against your own immortality,
And your soul, then, shall not retreat to me,
You have left the heavenly sight you could not see.

And who says my poems are all over you,
For you are not a prey to any wondrous sight,
Not a bright poem for a quality night,
Not a sterling soul for the Northern Light.

And who says my poems are not ancient,
For those who hear not through the yelping rain,
For those who lay asleep on every shiny day,
For those with less to writ than to say.

And who says my poems are tolerant,
Who says they shall be nice to such impediments,
Who says they are to writ in thy honour,
Who says they shall forgive, and forget like before.

And who says my poems are those of thine,
Who says you are entwined in my mind,
Who claims you have my artistic heart,
Who writs I’ll die in my narcissistic art.

And who says my poems are for all those,
With clumsy ears and a ruddy face and nose,
Whose intelligence gives birth to no merit,
Whose defense is void of pure delight and wit.

And who says my words are for all these,
Who twitches not at the intuition of my prose,
Who wonder at the sublime virtue of kisses,
Whose pain is born from the lavender and rose.

And who says my subtle words is for such beings,
Who hide at sunset and stretch at the sound of dawn,
Who says mortals are the most stellar of kings,
Who says the possessive rainbow shan’t be gone.

And who loves with the inherent new feelings,
Who goes to sleep by the wrath of art,
Who sees not through his heart’s beating,
Who shall have their ripe hopes torn apart.

And who pains from their selfish illusions,
Who lies to their merit and imagination,
Who molests the notion of salvation,
Who tells deceit and upholds deception.

And who silences his laden soul beneath his lust,
Who scratches it with a chain of sins,
Who curses but the fond forages of love,
Whose guise shall impede his own veins.

And who loves with hate, that hate causes pain,
Who writhes in the joy and scarce delight of friends,
Who hinders reliefs, who exalts tears;
Who weeps evenly, who alters love for fears.

You heart the moon and the guiding star
You tread across the earth and universe.
You forgive all wounds and heal scars
You read me through the bountiful verses.

You wear new masks, all over again
You writ at dusk and writhe in dust;
Your flesh warms up all over you,
Your love is dark, but honest and true.

Your life is but a whole drama and roses
And the actors you love but cannot kiss.
For your love awaits thee in the northern light,
The one who writs and oft’ stirs at night.

Your heart is but a touch of prose
And your rose has the perfume of a story;
When but many have left and got lost
You shall stay still, and wait for me.

Your love is but a touch of poetic gold
That has not the reason not to hold;
Your veins have a frantic beating
Awaiting for their lover’s steps, singing.

You must not cry for what has gone
For what is lost was an impediment;
You feel it too deeply on your own,
That all is handsome in your linen heaven.

You must not pine for what is lost
For misery does not live to linger,
For her heart is too common to your prose
That they better not live forever.

You must not want to feel those tears
They are distant that they shall not hear,
For if they know, they shan’t listen to you
T’is world is never meant for one like you.

You must not hark to the worldly sayings;
Let them madden and be cheated and die,
For a boneless excuse that has been a lie,
When they were truth not, those dying!

You are one childish soul sweet and meek,
A fateful soul I shall swear to withstand;
The one the sun hates in its dying week,
The one the evil ne’er befriends.

You are one gleaming sign of love,
Being that, your smile is all I dream of;
If the world were all that it seems
Then I could have my reason to stay in dreams.

You are the bird in the high garden hall
That keeps its nest and sings by the wall.
You are the song beneath the green valley
Adored and admired by their white lilies.

You are the forest’s eastern spark
That shines in between the western dark.
You are the lovely ecstatic little rose
Who spills rain and delicate water prose.

You are the flesh of the barren May
The fair bride to be crowned a happy day;
You are the cheerful soil of summer nights,
The toil that make green grass bright.

You are the clouds of the iron skies
That lend truth to their painted lies,
You are the kiss within the rugged tales
I have fallen in love with your drowsy spell.

You are the poet and the fantasy
That lie naively as a human to me;
At night atop the barn on the far hill
I can sense how you hear and feel.

You are a silence, you are my poems
You are the words that make me feel home
You welcome me with open arms,
Encircling me in your salubrious charms.

You are a solitude, you are my poetry
I want but my literature here with me;
The words of joy that make me laugh,
The chants of warmth that give me love.

Thou, my Helsinki, art but none like the whimsical England;
A sultry bruise in its own pretense and fear of foreign lands,
A sordid gate through which oneself ought not to fall,
With curses and dominions of souls awaiting by the wall,
And for we hath none there to live on and feed and exist,
That I had but to restrain my ripe taste for exotic bliss;
I could put neither my mind nor countenance at rest,
All fed from wealth, and churned an insatiable hole in my chest.
My heart is lost, and with a love gone for too long,
Misery has become too good, and cries are far prolonged.

My Helsinki is too sweet, unlike the ****** sun;
Perplexed only by my art at first, but not my literature.
With you, Aurora, all ice shall become ardent and lighter:
My sins shall fade as they penetrate the laden fun,
And the griefs that wash away shall quench the fire,
Returning to me my young snowstorms, and lyre.
I shall long to stride across thy satin-like blue mud,
Keeping my peace at pace within a salubrious heart.
All is thoughtful, my Helsinki; all is wicked but pure inside me,
That I can but love again when fate is too close to see.

Thou hath encased in a little lily my English violet,
A purple evil living on within a shiny swollen pocket.
In a place that is so laden with the promise of death,
Let’s forget our fallen fate and dream without breath.
Let us mock the rolling stars in the sour, unkempt sky;
To believe that England is not alive, that ‘tis but a lie.
To see that England is but a slithering little mire anew,
And a mire among beautiful mud like thee, wise and true.
To hear, or but to see that I can knit a new story,
That thou hath always had conscious faith in me.

Thou, who hath brought the sight of joyful days,
And the promise of such hath entertained me;
The vanished boughs of England once seemed real today,
Which my eyes found too unmerited for us to see.
All the squandered fate to me shall mean nothing,
Nor their grace shall carry the luck of the unknown.
All the wasted feasts that were once everything,
The past hath gone, leaving no absurd reality alone.
To me then, all of my England is oblivious and utterly dead;
That with a salubrious sweat, I shall send it into thorough death.

That the mind alone, of the poet, never loses its imagination,
That the fits it celebrates shall keep the delirium eternally;
That with delight shall celebrate poetry’s reincarnation,
In a daring love and human thought seen at the edge of Helsinki.
Where but did England’s spirit forsake me, every now and then,
I was beneath no love and the care of apparition friends,
That know not how to penetrate a crowd beneath its cheers,
Nor console the sick right in their hearts, all was too weird.
I was dwarfed in those cold whereabouts, I was unloved,
That even my favourite winter seemed too harsh to laugh.

You will tear me away from such despair, I believe;
Grab my hand, and lull it to sleep by the wealth it sees,
Make it rejoice at the fortune for which it writhes—and lives,
Make it love the days for whom it was devotedly decreed.
Ah! For just this once, I shall deliver my congratulations to you;
You have been the cold flower that spoke so clearly and true.
You are the fond memory that woke me from the steep sleep,
The depth that surrounded me in my virile anger, and weeps.
You are the quiet splendour that my mind boasts of, and conceives,
You are the trebled grace that my spirit strives to believe.

You are the one with the trident on the throne;
And you recall all my salubrious and tired moves,
That you say my love is sour yet fresh as warm vinegar,
That my love is a warmth to thee, much less thy solitude,
A solitude that hath been left clueless at its heart,
A solitude so magnanimous and cheerful like a flute.
You are the one who shall consecrate my love,
Make it as firm as the benign loving throne,
You are the one who shall feed from their naught,
Cheer, pamper me with a feat so real to me alone.

You are the one whose fiery fate shall contain me;
That rejects the bad and keeps to me eternally,
No further mist of love hath drifted by me, and all hath been vain,
Thou shalt but catch the one for me; and the colds that remain,
I shall be the first to crave for the form of my love, my man,
I shall be the first to witness the emergence of rain.
I shall be the first to look behind the heatless statue,
To see first the form of a man so definite and true.
Thou shalt me grant a life and solitude far better, not worse,
Thou shalt idolise me as thy special Goddess of words.

And guess who shall but take hold of my pleasurable arms,
The night’s chamber hath lost its insatiable moans, and warmths;
Long since, they all melted down on an antagonistic sunny day,
Riveting as it was, lethal in too many narcissistic ways.
Ever since, they all never came back in any lifelike form,
They are haunting each other in their own abysmal dreams.
That is, nonetheless, just how it should still be,
To be the charmed poet I am, to fathom the world as I do.
That too, my love, is how my poetry shall ever want me,
That a love, as I did know, shall only ever come from you.

Hail! Hail! I feel so newfound and beautifully charmed and true,
Thy wind hath tossed me about like a pink-cheeked village child,
There is no spirit with freshness and joy, indeed, like you,
You gleam like a star, even on the summer moors so wild.
Everyone lives—the idea England seldom wants to confess,
Everyone lives on our art, for everyone and art are at their best.
And guess who is to swim into the heartless, shadowed sea,
For all is not cold and merely awake in our imagination.
The seas, which stir to life on the breaths of a sunny day,
Vitriolic attempts they make, much less their thankless ways.

Hail! Hail! I feel my imagination is about to be restored;
That all wrinkles and pains and worries shall but fade,
I shall again sail to the autumn breezes and daylight cold—
Facing my auburn destiny that ne’er comes too late.
Ah, Helsinki, whose hundreds of Christmas dusts shall overwhelm me,
Open my heart in a fun satire, full of delightful joy.
I seek to celebrate the clear day in thy ice of victory;
A beauty the sun shan’t thaw nor lay nor destroy,
Ah, Helsinki, so beautiful are thy majesty and cordial rains,
A pyre of stars by agreeable mountains, and dramatic friends.

Hail! Hail! My Helsinki is melancholy from what I hath seen,
It appreciates much the work of heaven in worried poetry,
That all solitude is passionately brewed, and born again
Within the real magnitude of love and festive sanctity.
My heart was too young and frivolous to follow the tender nature;
To gain what poetry truly was, nor share its sensible culture,
That once a call of tempt sloshed flippantly over me;
I became corrupt and unable to see the light in thee.
That I was wrong, I was too lighthearted to be wrong;
Bring me back my art—wash me with your newborn love, my Helsinki.