This is the only such collection of Dutch poetry in translation from medieval times to the present, as prior anthologies have been limited to contemporary poets or to feminist verse. It contains more than one hundred poems in bilingual text, with Dutch and English on facing pages. This is a rare example of poetry translated into poetry, preserving form and style with remarkable fidelity. A beautiful collection of poetic classics, but above all the quality of the translations is extraordinarily high. -- Driekleur, a monthly Dutch periodical for Netherlanders living abroad, March, 1998 A very handsome book. Especially good in matching the meter of the originals... the translations are sensitive and faithful. -- Johanna Prins, Columbia University, Newsletter of American Association for Netherlandic Studies, Spring 1998 The view through this kaleidoscope is a delight: full of color, depth and perspective and a true insight into the rich Dutch poetry of the past, which has been kept from the English speaking world for too long. -- Dr. Ton Broos, Director of Dutch Studies, University of Michigan Their presentation of translations accompanied by the original Dutch text makes this volume a treasure trove for all. -- Robert S. Kirsner, Professor of Dutch and Afrikaans, University of California, Los Angeles They have in great measure succeeded in giving English speakers an insight into what Dutch poets have produced in the course of centuries. All worthwhile, very interesting reading. -- De Nederlandse Courant, a Canadian Dutch newspaper, March 14, 1998 Translating poetry is so difficult and both authors are able to do it, and that is a small miracle. A beautiful book. -- Dr. Maarten Timmer, Amstelveen, Netherlands, De Hollandse Krant, a Canadian Dutch newspaper, May 25, 1998 A MAY SONG Anonymous (14th/15th centuries: date uncertain) "My lovely dear, why lie you here To sleep away the time? Rise up and take this budding may, Already in its prime." "For no may do I want to rise Or open windows wide; Plant your may in your own way, Plant your may outside!" "Where should I plant or put it then? 'Tis all in the Lord's bower; The winter night is cold and long, It would forget to flower." "Sweet love, if it forgets to flower, We'll bury it where the moss is In the churchyard by the eglantine; Its grave will bloom with roses." "Sweet love, and round those roses there The nightingale shall play, And every spring shall sweetly sing His songs for us in May." Footnote: The word 'may' ('mei' in Dutch) is used in this poem for both the month and the mayflower. The distinction is less obvious in the original, because the names of months are not capitalized in Dutch. LOVELY WEATHER AND BABIES Constantijn Huygens (1596-1687) Lovely children in their crib, Lovely weather at the gate, The two, they have a common trait: They seem to me - Truth cannot fib - Loveliest, and we profit by it Most, when they are dry and quiet. EPITAPH for P. C. Hooft * Jan Vos (1620-1667) Death has vanquished Hooft. The stone covers his grave. Time turns him into ash: but none the power shall have To fell that noble mind. Now his few hours are past, And yet his pen shall Death and Stone and Time outlast. Footnote: * P. C. Hooft: a contemporary historian, playwright and poet, also represented in this collection. BOUTADE An Ode to the Dutch Climate Petrus Augustus de Gnestet (1829-1861) O land of mist and muck and dampness all-pervading, O soggy piece of soil, of chilly, dirty rain, Of deep and slimy mire and mud-roads beyond wading, Of toothaches and of gout, umbrellas and migraine! O tedious morass, O acres of galoshes, Of bargemen, geese and frogs, of swampgods all and one, Of every kind of duck that in the puddle sloshes, Receive the autumn moan of your rheumatic son! Your cloudy, clammy clime so unconciliatory Has turned my blood to mud: there's peace nor joy for me. Put on your overshoes, O hallowed ground of glory, That - not at my request - was wrested from the sea. MOTHER Jacqueline van der Waals (1868-1922) Mother, who so long ago did leave me From childhood on still aching for your love; But oh, how are you going to receive me So soon now, when we meet above? Oh can it be that as your child you'll greet Me, when I wake again when I am dead? And may I then kneel down before your feet, There in your lap to lay my head? But what then? What is it that you shall say, Among the humming of the angels there, When you your young white hand shall lay Upon this old, grey hair? BUTTERFLY Anthonie Donker (1902-1965) A butterfly, half blinded by our light, has from the darkening garden wandered in - She, the familiar of the summer day, the wind that stirs the cradle of the flowers, has from that lovely kingdom turned away and with those fluttering wings made her descent i