Two Octaves

The journey’s done, we’ve come! . . . Here is the beautiful island!
Its double shores. The one with open spaces drenched with light,
snow white, with all its fated ruins and black birds.
The other — O wood of myrtles, hyacinthine gardens,
and under the full boughs of bitter orange trees,
the shadows! . . . The Loves talk, and nightingales reply.
The one shore calls us “Here!” and the other “Here am I!”
Boat, where shall we anchor? Boatman, where shall we go? . . .

Do not abandon your pain to this place!
But with a mother’s care voyage it far
wherever there’s life, wherever there’s dream, to far lands
and high. Then take it afterwards and plant its roots deep
in that completely dead land of the mute;
confine and bury its voice in your eyes,
and if its eyes cannot hold out, and shut,
then shut your eyes also and die with it.