Bêdklok
Ik hie foar myn kuier by winterjûn
Net ien om mei te petearjen fûn,
Mar ik hie it streekje dat der wie,
Oant de glânzjende eagen yn de snie,
En hie, miende ik, it folk binnendoar:
Hie it lûd fan in fidel, stimmen yn koar;
De fitraazjes wienen net earlik ticht, en
Ik seach jonge stalten, jonge gesichten.
Soks hie ’k as selskip op wei bûtenút.
Gjin went mear te finen. En mei spyt
Gong ik werom, mar seach gjin raam
Mear dêr’t noch altyd ljocht út kaam.
Myn stap oer it snietek joech gerûs,
It helle de buorren út ’e sûs –
Untwijing hast, mei permisje, dien
Op in winterjûn, de klok sloech tsien.
Good Hours
I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.
Ut North of Boston, 1914