None of all my kinsmen

Could this sorrow-laden soul stir to any joy. 
Little then does he believe who life’s pleasure owns,
While he tarries in the towns, and but trifling ills,
Proud and insolent with wine—­how out-wearied I
Often must outstay on the ocean path! 
Sombre grew the shade of night, and it snowed from northward,
Frost the field enchained, fell the hail on earth,
Coldest of all grains.

                       Wherefore now then crash together

Thoughts my soul within that I should myself adventure
The high streamings of the sea, and the sport of the salt waves! 
For a passion of the mind every moment pricks me on
All my life to set a faring; so that far from hence,
I may seek the shore of the strange outlanders. 
Yes, so haughty of his heart is no hero on the earth,
Nor so good in all his giving, nor so generous in youth,
Nor so daring in his deed, nor so dear unto his lord,
That he has not always yearning unto his sea-faring,
To whatever work his Lord may have will to make for him. 
For the harp he has no heart, nor for having of the rings,
Nor in woman is his weal, in the world he’s no delight,
Nor in anything whatever save the tossing o’er the waves! 
Oh, forever he has longing who is urged towards the sea. 
Trees rebloom with blossoms, burghs are fair again,
Winsome are the wide plains, and the world is gay—­
All doth only challenge the impassioned heart
Of his courage to the voyage, whosoever thus bethinks him,
O’er the ocean billows, far away to go. 
Every cuckoo calls a warning, with his chant of sorrow! 
Sings the summer’s watchman, sorrow is he boding,
Bitter in the bosom’s hoard.  This the brave man wots not of,
Not the warrior rich in welfare—­what the wanderer endures,
Who his paths of banishment, widest places on the sea. 
For behold, my thought hovers now above my heart;
O’er the surging flood of sea now my spirit flies,
O’er the homeland of the whale—­hovers then afar
O’er the foldings of the earth!  Now again it flies to me
Full of yearning, greedy!  Yells that lonely flier;
Whets upon the Whale-way irresistibly my heart,
O’er the storming of the seas!

Translation of Stopford Brooke.

          THE FORTUNES OF MEN

     Full often it falls out, by fortune from God,
     That a man and a maiden may marry in this world,
     Find cheer in the child whom they cherish and care for,
     Tenderly tend it, until the time comes,
     Beyond the first years, when the young limbs increasing
     Grown firm with life’s fullness, are formed for their work. 
     Fond father and mother so guide it and feed it,
     Give gifts to it, clothe it:  God only can know
     What lot to its latter days life has to bring.