My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace
Closer and closer draw thou to my side! Thou hast more need of love than ever yet
Gaita galaica, que sabes cantar lo que profundo y dulce nos es.
My heart is sad today; I know not why. Is it the dismal falling of the rain--
Through brute nature upward rising, Seed up-striving to the light,
Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love, That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
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;
We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone, Which spake in Greek simplicty of thought,
For thy dear safety, not for mine own ease, I am thus kindly cruel, unhappy girl!
The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
Ever a darkness somewhere in the sun, Ever less lustre in the stars at night,
Cuando tu broche apenas se entreabría para aspirar la dicha y el contento
¿Sabes, rubia, qué gracia solicito cuando de ofrendas cubro los altares?
O ye dead Poets, who are living still
Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,
Pale flowers are you, that scarce have known the sun! Your little faces like sad blossoms seem,
A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown, Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind—
Although the story of our love be lost In the long vista of the coming years,--
Like moonstones drooping from a fair queen's ears The pale lights seem--
¡Feliz quien junto a ti por ti suspira, Quien oye el eco de tu voz sonora,
Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak, Lives not within the humor of the eye;—
John Maynard! " Who is John Maynard?"
Less in myself than thee do I believe. I know the weakness of my wandering mind;
The sun has gone, and from the ferryboat That like a golden worm crawls through the night,
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Today the lady of my heart was born Into this checkered world of joy and pain;
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
For life and death to me are so akin, So aptly one suggests the other's being;
|
|