I have thy love, and were I drunk with joy That were enough. I'd revel out my day,
Basta de amor: si un tiempo te quería Ya se acabó mi juvenil locura,
Through brute nature upward rising, Seed up-striving to the light,
John Maynard! " Who is John Maynard?"
My heart is sad today; I know not why. Is it the dismal falling of the rain--
Unfathomable Night! how dost thou sweep Over the flooded earth, and darkly hide
Saw ye first, arrayed in mist and cloud; No cheerful lights softened your aspect bold;
Gaita galaica, que sabes cantar lo que profundo y dulce nos es.
Closer and closer draw thou to my side! Thou hast more need of love than ever yet
Cuando tu broche apenas se entreabría para aspirar la dicha y el contento
We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone, Which spake in Greek simplicty of thought,
¿Sabes, rubia, qué gracia solicito cuando de ofrendas cubro los altares?
¡Feliz quien junto a ti por ti suspira, Quien oye el eco de tu voz sonora,
The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
Less in myself than thee do I believe. I know the weakness of my wandering mind;
When with the courage lent me by thy smile, I laid my hands upon thy sacred form,
I trust my love for thee may expiate The many passions I have felt or feigned
Que se quede el infinito sin estrellas, que la curva del tiempo se enderece.
Pale flowers are you, that scarce have known the sun!
Your little faces like sad blossoms seem,
Although the story of our love be lost In the long vista of the coming years,--
A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown, Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind—
Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,— A tender infant with its curtain'd eye,
Like moonstones drooping from a fair queen's ears
The pale lights seem--
As Cleopatra's pearl dissolved in wine, Made her rich draught the boast of olden days,--
She said to him, "Unless, when I am dead From out the green sod of my lowly grave
For thy dear safety, not for mine own ease, I am thus kindly cruel, unhappy girl!
O ye dead Poets, who are living still
Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,
Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak, Lives not within the humor of the eye;—
The sun has gone, and from the ferryboat
That like a golden worm crawls through the night,
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