Photo by Andrew Porteus
The tale of Niagara Falls
Long since has been white-bearded.
The elder would overtake you with noise—
Why be so gloomy, weary?
O eternity!
Just here my gaze is fixed
On things of every day.
Merely the tiny little day
Of a bit of joviality, of a dirge dash:
A reflective pane
Of an abandoned house
That mirrors
The sunset red
On a dove;
That hovers on wings
Of death,
And exhausts in the air
The mite of life that is destined her
On earth.
Source: Jehiel B. Cooperman and Sarah H. Cooperman (selectors and translators). America in Yiddish Poetry: An Anthology. New York: Exposition Press, 1967.
Thanks to Sammy Hacker for bringing this poem to my attention.
The itty bitty, the teeny tiny. Poetry is never that. A fascinating poem. Flowing.