the girls are coming home in their cars
and I sit by the window and
Cuando nací, sin sol, mi madre dijo: —Flor de mi seno, Homagno generoso
Pinta mi amigo el pintor Sus angelones dorados,
¿Del tirano? Del tirano Di todo, ¡di más!; y clava
De pie, cada mañana, Junto a mi áspero lecho está el verdugo.—
Allí despacio te diré mis cuitas; Allí en tu boca escribiré mis versos!—
Beechwood fires are bright and clear
If the logs are kept a year,
Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort of sky
Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' by
No me quites las canas Que son mi nobleza:
Homagno sin ventura La hirsuta y retostada cabellera
The Gypsies passed her little gate—
She stopped her wheel to see—
The baby I hold in my arms is a black baby.
And I went and put my hands
into the ground, and they took root
Ven, mi caballo, a que te encinche: quieren Que no con garbo natural el coso
At sixteen they laughed yonder, in the springtime afternoon.
Miss Otis regrets she's unable to lunch today,
Madam,
I have been all men known to history,
Wondering at the world and at time passing;
So we know
she must have said something
I hate the pen, the foolscap fair,
The poet’s corner, and the page,
Leí estos versos de Ronsard: «Je vous envoie un bouquet que ma main
When I am buried, all my thoughts and acts
Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts,
At Quincey's moat the squandering village ends,
And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends
(Original Spanish; can someone provide the title?)
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Already fallen plum-bloom stars the green
And apple-boughs as knarred as old toads' backs
Oh, qué vergüenza!: —El sol ha iluminado La tierra: el amplio mar en sus entrañas
Como nacen las palmas en la arena, Y la rosa en la orilla al mar salobre,
I watched him one day fingering a shelf
Caressingly, forgetful of himself
The East is dead and the West is done, and again our course lies thus
South-east by Fate and the Rising Sun where the Three Ki
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