I love you with each fibre of this frame, Sentient and moral. I have sought that spot
Trial on trial we must meet and brave, Temptation on temptation overcome.
Sweet, when thy brow becomes the haunted spot Of Death's grim heralds, care and wasting pain,
Velas de amor en golfos de ternura vuela mi pobre corazón al viento
Mi mentor era un viejo de ojos claros y vivos que al llegar los exámenes a su terminación,
I sometimes feel so lonely! O my God, I sometimes feel as though the race of man
Tonight I walked with the grim Florentine Through all the woes of his material hell;
Que se quede el infinito sin estrellas, que la curva del tiempo se enderece.
For what to me were Helen's honeyed word, Or guiltless Iphigenia's sacred charms;
I strive to live my life in whitest truth, Even in the face of this deceitful world;
Mere love, the common commerce of the earth, Is little in its uses; scarcely won,
CCLXXXVIII O, I adjure thee, keep my words in mind,
A marvel to me is my lady's hand; 'Tis not that plump, thick-palmed and dimpled thing
If in the liking of thine eye to live, To shift my colors as thy fancies change,
I do not love her! So my Lady says. I, ah! so humble with my many years,
Whither, thou glory of thy gentle race, My heart's content, within whose warmth I lie,
When on the splendor of thy shining head Death lays his hand, I feel that thou art born,
Ah! Could I ever grow in some remote degree Nearer the whiteness of my darling's love;
By thy own truth, Beloved, I am true! I swear by that in which I most believe;
Like to a flock of birds, the flying days Whirr in my ears, and leave no trace behind,
These gusts of passion blown in many a mood Through heart and spirit and conceiving brain,
The dreadful vision of my fears has burst Upon our unprotected heads at last;
To watch the night out is a dreary thing: To muse and sorrow o'er my desperate lot,
My darling, now the slumber of the night Lies on thy eyelids, and thy guiltless heart
In lingering winter was my darling born, To make amends by Nature for her dearth
I will not have our holy love profaned By that untruth which slanders as impure
Sing of her beauty! Sing of that which grows My daily wonder! Shall this lute essay
C'est l'heure exquise et matinale Que rougit un soleil soudain.
Ya no te amaba, sin dejar por eso de amar la sombra de tu amor distante.
The years repeat themselves; and now, once more, The day that gave my darling birth is here;
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