# Poems (Eminescu)/Fourth Epistle

FOURTH EPISTLE
Solitary stands the castle mirrored in the lake and deep In the waters clear for ages quietly its shadows sleep, There it rises in the silence, high above the ancient trees, Throwing darkness on the waters ruffled by the summer breeze. Inside one can see but faintly through the panes of arched bays Folded curtains like the hoar-frost glinting in the twilight rays. Over forests trembling rises now the moon and burning grows, Mossy rocks and tree-tops painting ’gainst the sky, their beauty shows; Those tall oaks, a guard of giants, tow’ring high there, on the azure, Her bright orient bed seem guarding like a precious, secret treasure.
There the white swans softly gliding through the reeds come from their nests, Lonely lords of quiet waters, in this calm the only guests, Now they soar, their heads uplifting, and their outspread wings they shake Cutting undulating circles, glowing furrows on the lake; By the waves moved quiver rustling all the rushes in the thicket, In the grass with flowers fragrant drowsy chirps and sighs a cricket… O how sweet the summer breathing, sweet the voices of the night!… Under the veranda sighing stands a solitary knight. All the balustrade is hidden under woodbine, roses rare, Their intoxicating perfume has embalmed the evening air; With the night’s bewitching fragrance drunk now all his senses are, Over this whole charm of nature sweetly ripples his guitar:
„Come in thy white silken garment, with its long train, which doth seem All with silver dust bespringled, come again my dearest dream. All my life thy radiant presence I shall worhip, lady mine, With thy slender hand caressing those soft golden curls of thine. Corne and play with me, the flowers from thy bosom on me throw… ​O the night’s so white in moonlight, all seems sleeping under snow. Shall we linger, time beguiling, in the bower’s fragrant shade? Cupid, prankish page, the candle hides away, my tender maid!“
Rustling silk is heard above him, on the balustrade inclining, Childlike laughs a face so happy, as an angel she is shining; From the balcony she throws him down a rose, she seems but scolding While she whispers to him fondly, round her lips her white hands holding; She again now disappearing, quick steps come downstairs in haste… Running with their arms outstretchèd fondly they are now enlaced… Arm in arm they go, so meetly to each other they belong, She so beautiful and slender, he so handsome, tall and strong. From the shady shore advances slowly moved by oars a barge, From the mast its sails are drooping, and the wind abaft at large, And they fly on dream wings happy, far from envy, far from harm, Rocked in soul with so much beauty, spellbound, rapt by nature’s charm.
Now the moon, the moon ascendeth in her splendour, full and bright, And from shore to shore on waters builds a path of glowing light, That in thousandfold quick ripples mirrors gleaming every beam Sent by heaven’s fairest maiden, of eternal mist the dream; And the more her sweet light shining clearer, brighter still doth glow, So the waves, the shores are greater, and the forest seems to grow, While the ocean swaying moon disk nearer seems, on shady bowers From the mighty lime-trees shaken, their fair blossoms fall in showers, Or by wind o’er waters driven fly to match her golden hair. Throwing back her head, enraptured, in her arms she clasps him there:
„O thy words are sweetly thrilling, speak no more, O thou amazest Thy poor slave whom now so highly in thy lofty thought thou raisest: This love pain that thy soul feeleth this is all my life’s desire, My poor heart is aching, kindled by thy voice’s gentle fire. O this seems an old love story! All thy dreams, thy eyes’ sweet night, O they burn my soul to ashes, and they fill me with delight. These deep eyes, though they may blind me, give them me, my heaven’s gates! Listen how the waves are talking with the stars that know the fates! Those dark forests speak now dreaming; listen, every wand’ring spring When he meets another wand’rer of our love is whispering, ​And the morning star above us that his trembling cold rays sends, This whole earth, the lake, the heavens, they are all our loving friends. Thou may’st now forget the rudder, thou may’st throw away the oars, Let’s be taken where it listeth by the wind that gently soars, Let’s be led on wheresoever, our dear aim we cannot miss, If to life or death we’re led on, wheresoe’er we go is bliss!“
Fancy, O my dearest fancy! When I am alone with thee How oft dost thou make me wander in the groves, on fields, on sea! How to all these unknown countries couldst thou ever wander so? When did all these strange things happen? Many centuries ago? Now there is no time with full heart thy beloved to caress, To embrace and kiss her, feeling in her eyes love’s blessedness; Now her hand thou scarcely touchest, and at once through opened door. All her relatives assembled in a congress in will pour, Soon aside thy head thou turnest, casting down thy humble look… In this world is there no longer left for love a quiet nook?
With this life I’m sick and weary… Not that I its cups have sipped, But its misery’s so bitter, in its prose to be so dipped! Fools, how can you cry and suffer, sanctify with holy tear This vain instinct, common impulse, that e’en birds feel twice a year? No, you do not live, another loves, inspires you,—he but lives, He with your own mouth is laughing, he to all the impulse gives, All your lives are like the waters, waves in never ending surge In a stream that is eternal, this stream is the Demiurge. Don’t you feel that you see wonders in these dull desires? O fools! That your love is but another’s, that all these are but the tools To fulfil another’s purpose, serving only nature’s need? That this all is but the cradle of new life, of hate the seed? Don’t you see your joy and laughter in your sons cause only pain? That in all our veins is running still the guilty blood of Cain? Much ado of human voices, nothing but a puppet show, They tell jokes, mere words like parrots, but their meaning do not know… The same actor through the ages one same thing again will say, Endlessly soliloquizing, in an everlasting play. Why then, while the moon o’er deserts through the clouds is gliding slowly, ​Creepest thou with thoughts so lofty on a woman’s footsteps lowly? Look at her through lighted windows how, surrounded in a ball By a swarm of idle fellows, frivolous she smiles at all? While they wink with understanding, and the while she flirts with these, With such foolish adoration thou before her door wilt freeze? And with passion love her, faithful, thinking that she is delightful, While like April she’s capricious, while she is so cold and spiteful? In thy dreams embrace her always, all consumed with holy fire, And from top to toe caress her in thy thought, and to admire, To adore like a Madonna painted by a Raphael, While she is so cold, coquettish?—’Tis ridiculous, mark well! Yes… anon I dreamt so often of the only one to love me, Knowing that I understand her, she would stand inclined above me, Like a muse when I am thoughtful, I should feel her near me, near… Our whole life would be a love-tale, like a fountain pure and clear. No, I seek her now no longer… Why should I? The same old song, Thirst for quietude eternal, this is all for which I long; But the instrument is shattered, midst disordered screetches wild, As in night the spring soft murmurs, that old song is heard so mild. Here and there a voice, though faintly, sounds as clearly as before From a Carmen saeculare which I dreamt in times of yore, But the whole now whistles, screetches, jars with broken sounds so dire, Wildly driving, tossing, whirling, rolls tumultuous on my lyre. My poor head is waste and burning, in my thought the winds howl strong, Harsh and shrill is still resounding that eternal, endless song…
Where are they, those clear, light moments of my poor life now so sad? O the instrument is shattered, the musician now is mad!