Yes, I could trust, forever and a day, Thy constant heart to any worldling's wiles,
I saw pale Dian, sitting by the brink Of silver falls, the overflow of fountains
No popular respect will I omit To do thee honor on this happy day,
Today the lady of my heart was born Into this checkered world of joy and pain;
Ever a darkness somewhere in the sun, Ever less lustre in the stars at night,
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
For life and death to me are so akin, So aptly one suggests the other's being;
The curse of Adam, the old curse of all, Though I inherit in this feverish life
Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how I wake and passionate watches keep;
To say my Love is beautiful, to praise The penciled arches of her ivory brow,
Bajo la sensación del cloroformo me hacen temblar con alarido interno,
When last I saw my darling's wondrous eyes, For my mere presence grow so gladly bright,
I have a faith that love can do as much; Love that works miracles against a time
Here surge the ceaseless caravans,
Here throbs the city's heart,
Beneath the stars and yonder waning moon, Over the brooks that sparkle to the main,
My lady's senses are so pure and fine, She takes small pleasure in the close embrace
Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine;
Not as a knight, who on the listed field
A noble woman! One who can forgive, Without descending from her native height,
Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, Turning a spirit as he nears the sky!
When men distrust me, not because they find Baseness in me, but basely they mistake
To be forever thus alone with thee, Thus locked and fettered in thy tender arms,
I cannot tell thee when my heart began To love thee, Dearest; for I cannot say
This is a sorry ending to a thing We once called love, in our fatuity,
Night takes the scepter from the hand of day, And sets her drowsy stars about the world;
I said unto myself, if I were dead,
What would befall these children? What would be
By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts, Graven by Time, in love with his own lore;
Thy birthday ends a year of grief and pain, Of hope deferred, that maketh sick the heart,
My dearest, trust me! I may err and fail In many ways, through mere humanity,
Most delicate Ariel! submissive thing, Won by the mind's high magic to its hest—
Shall I not know thee in the life to be By something proper unto thee alone--
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