Nighttime
Fresh, cool wind pours
on my face;
Frost-bright moon shines
in my eyes.
Swift fish play, splash,
in the lake.
High stars sing hymns
in the skies.
Where am I, but here?
Where are you, but here?
Breeze-blown leaves shush
in the trees,
Small birds trill flutes
in the dark.
Sweet blooms raise scent
for the bees.
Shy deer eat shoots
in the park.
Where am I, but here?
Where are you, but here?
Salme's Song
I will not love the night-lord,
nor marry the harried moon.
His work is always pressing,
his rising oft too soon.
I will not love the sun-king;
his fire I cherish not;
he blights the land with fury
and passions waxing hot.
The star I take as lover;
he shines with gentle light;
his eyes are kind and loving
and steady in the night.
Thus starry youth and Salme
shall wed in joy sublime
and waltz on Harria's shoreland
until the end of time.
The Bacchae
When the god of wine and revel
made dizzy the city's prince,
the omens darkly muttered
with a strange malevolence.
But the king kept to his folly
and was slain by the godly bull,
carried home in his mother's arms.
Amen: the gods are cruel.
You are proud in your ways, O mortals!
Better it is to mourn
than march through mocking streets
to where the beasts are torn.
You are vain with vain cosmetics
by which you hide your soul;
you boast of civic order
when destruction is your goal.
You speak the name of Justice?
But Justice walks with sword
to slit the throats of mortals
with a fate no charm can ward.
When your life is swiftly over --
when we see the path you've trod --
we will see not boasted glory
but the mocking of the god.
