I cannot tell what cause dissolved my dream, As it has done a thousand dreams ere now--
A la infiel más infiel de las hermosas un hombre la quería y yo la amaba;
Con su veste en color de serpentina, reía la voluble Primavera...
Pasó en un mundo saturnal; yacía bajo cien noches pavorosas, y era
Enorme tronco que arrastró la ola, yace el caimán varado en la ribera;
Anforas de cristal, airosas galas de enigmáticas formas sorprendentes,
Go count the violets on April's breast, And all the rosy censers swung by June;
Beloved, thou cam 'st to me of late and said; "Stay with me, Dearest! Stay another day!
Thus gracious ever is my darling's mind; Forgiving not alone the guilt which dyes
Within my mind I keep a holy plot, Where such ideas as wear unsullied white
I heard today that one, who sometime reigned The hauty mistress of my captive will,
I do not love thee! What vile act of mine Has given my loyal heart that patent lie?
In famed Sakoontala I read tonight How King Dushyanta, in a moment, knew
If I die now, I have not lived in vain; If this last breath, which quivers through my lip.
This fellow calls me sordid, that one poor-- Poorer in spirit than in purse, perchance;
I could not hope that one so rarely fair As thou, could firmly brook this shameful brand,
Clamber again into thy midday place, O sun of love, now so besmirched with cloud;
If sin be punished, or be purged away, Then sin's remembrance must survive this earth;
White as this paper was my lady's mind Ere with my bold and desecrating hand
The crocus opened slowly yesterday, And in its sod the grass began to stir,
When all the labors of the day are past, And on the world-exposed and fretted edge
Why should I love? Why lay my heart before One who may glance with merriment or scorn
O heart, be not bewildered with delight! Calm the wild senses, still the dizzy brain,
Le spectre de la realité traverse ma pensée Victor Hugo
El rumor de las máquinas crecía en la sala contigua: ya mi espera
Heaven shaped her ear in fashioning the shell, A pearly circlet, lined with faintest pink;
I pity him, unhappy gentleman, Whom chance or luckless fortune has conveyed
King Midas, walking through his realm of old, Moved not more grandly than did we today
Dear Lord, this sense of supernatural power, This stately mastery over earthly things,
Querida, ao pé do leito derradeiro Em que descansas dessa longa vida,
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