Rosa Mystica'The rose is a mystery'--where is it found?Is it anything true? Does it grow upon the ground?It was made of earth's mould, but it went from men's eyes,And its place is a secret and shut in the skies. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, Find me a place by thee, mother of mine.But where was it formerly? Which is the spotThat was blest in it once, though now it is not?It is Galilee's growth: it grew at God's willAnd broke into bloom upon Nazareth hill.In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,I shall look on thy loveliness, mother of mine.What was its season then? How long ago?When was the summer that saw the bud blow?Two thousands of years are near upon pastSince its birth and its bloom and its breathing its last.In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,I shall keep time with thee, mother of mine.Tell me the name now, tell me its name.The heart guesses easily: is it the same?Mary the Virgin, well the heart knows,She is the mystery, she is that rose.In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,I shall come home to thee, mother of mine.Is Mary the rose then? Mary, the tree?But the blossom, the blossom there--who can it be?Who can her rose be? It could but be OneChrist Jesus our Lord, her God and her son.In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,Show me thy son, mother, mother of mine.What was the colour of that blossom bright?--White to begin with, immaculate white.But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stoodWhen the rose ran in crimsonings down the cross-wood!In the gardens of God, in the daylight divineI shall worship His wounds with thee, mother of mine.How many leaves had it?--Five they were then,Five, like the senses and members of men;Five is their number by nature, but nowThey multiply, multiply--who can tell how?In the gardens of God, in the daylight divineMake me a leaf in thee, mother of mine.Does it smell sweet, too, in that holy place?Sweet unto God and the sweetness is grace:The breath of it bathes great heaven aboveIn grace that is charity, grace that is love.To thy breast, to thy rest, to thy glory divineDraw me by charity, mother of mine.

.الشمستشرق الشمس الذهبية كل يوم على التلة. الأيكة جميلة، والحيوانات المتوحشة كذلك،أيضا الرجل: صيادا كان أو مزارعا.السمك الأحمر يقفز في البركة الخضراء.تحت قبة السماءصياد السمك يسافر برفق في زورقه الأزرق الصغير.البذرة، عناقيد العنب، تنضج على مهل.وعندما يصل اليوم الهادئ إلى نهايته،تكون تهيئة كل من الخير والشر قد تمت.وبحلول الليل،دون أدنى شك يرفع المسافر جفنيه الثقيلين،الشمس تهرب من الوديان الكئيبة.

زهرة قطن نوفمبرسوسة القطن في طريقها، وبرد الشتاء،أضفى على سويقات القطن لون الصدأ، كمواسم فات أوانها،والقطن، شحيح كثلج جنوبي،الغصن يتهاوى؛ رخواً شديد الذبول،لا يصلح أن يكون مجرفة لأوراق الخريف؛التربة اجتاحها القحط مسبباً بانجرافهاجفاف كل مياه السواقي؛ طيورٌ ميتةٌ وجدت في الآبار على عمق مائة قدم تحت سطح الأرضو هذا هو الفصل الذي تفتحت فيه الزهرةالدهشة أصابت كبار القوم، وسرعان ما حلوا اللغزالخرافة رأت ما لم تره من قبل قط: عيون بنية وقعت في حبها دونما وجل،حُسْنٌ لا يخطر ببال أحد في مثل ذلك الوقت من السنة.Jean Toomer1894-1967