Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again.
We did not bury him deep enough; break up the monument,
Open the tomb, strip off the flags and the flowers
Dans une terre grasse et pleine d'escargots Je veux creuser moi-même une fosse profonde,
If this be friendship--that one broken hour
(O fragile link in all the loving years!)
I do not care for kisses. "Tis a debt We paid for the first privilege of love.
Before my senses or my soul awake, Sorrow begins to stir within my heart;
Tuércele el cuello al cisne de engañoso plumaje
que da su nota blanca al azul de la fuente;
There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,
Oh! leave the past to buy its own dead. The past is naught to us, the present all.
As strong, as deep, as wide as is the sea, Though by the wind made restless as the wind,
When we two parted, on a summer day, With lingering hands, with sobs, with swimming eyes,
There is no shadow where my love is laid; For (ever thus I fancy in my dream
O Sleep, thou kindest minister to man, Silent distiller of the balm of rest,
Is love a pleasure or a pain in mask, The more to lure us on to final woe,
As when at Delphi, Thymus close behind, He flew through stadium to applause's roar,
Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love, That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace
Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm cloud's thunderous melody,
There is no greater sorrow, Dante said, Than to remember happy days in grief.
Time masks, but cannot bound my love for thee; All the year's changes, the bud, bloom, and fall
Blue glaciers, peaks of marble, granite, slate, Moraines whence winds from Begle to Nethou
If dreaming of thee be a waste of time, My endless sin I can but frankly own;
Stand fast amidst the darkness! Ah! my dear, 'Tis easy loving where the sunshine falls,
Oft had I felt, like pure Endymion, Such love for the sweet moon, that I had well
No sientas que te falte el don de hablar que te arrebata el cielo,
Gone, gone! The rayless window sheds no light Upon my upturned eyes; the graceful girl
O'er their soft limbs has myrrh its fragrance shed; And bathed in warmth beneath December's skies
Love has no triumph and no future crown For feeble hearts, that cannot stand the test
Love stirs the pulses of my deeper thought, Muses on things that were and things to be,
I, like thy shadow, am a part of thee. In vain thou fliest: the level desert plain--
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