|
Poems about Sonnet
|
If she should give me all I ask of her, The virgin treasures of her modest love;
Sobre el rojo diván de seda intacta, con dibujos de exótica graminea,
Once as I slumbered, with my heart awake-- Love's lonely sentinel--my lady stood,
Let the world's people hiss at us! I meet Their stormiest bickerings with an equal brow;
My length in earth would now contain me all, All my ambitions, all my loves and hates--
Mon coeur était jadis comme un palais romain, Tout construit de granits choisis, de marbres rares.
Hors du coffret de laque aux clous d'argent, parmi Les fleurs du tapis jaune aux nuances calmées,
De amor tentado un penitente un día, con nieve un busto de mujer formaba,
Since that which issues from the sovereign head Springs from a source so weak and insecure,
'Tis not in hollow wood and tinkling wire To be the wonder I would have them be;
Oh! sigh no more, no longer paint the air With the distempered pictures of thy brain!
The leaden eyelids of wan twilight close Upon the sun; and now the misty dew
And does she love me now as yesterday? Is love divine indeed, and scorns to wear
O poète trop prompt à te laisser charmer, Si cette douce enfant devait t'être ravie,
Ni arrastrada un pastor llevar podía a una cabra infeliz que oía amante
Un enjambre de pájaros metidos en jaula de metal guardó un cabrero
En un beato silencio el recinto vegeta. Las vírgenes de cera duermen en su decoro
I touched the limit of supremest bliss, Knew joy's whole secret on this golden day;
Now infant nature, just awaking, lies Warm in the hollow of thy matron lap,
Speed on thy solemn pilgrimage, O Earth; And count thy rosary of golden days
Grieve not the heart that loves thee!" In a ring I read this posy. Would thy gracious hand
Bon Suisse expatrié, la tristesse te gagne, Loin de ton Alpe blanche aux éternels hivers;
Go count the violets on April's breast, And all the rosy censers swung by June;
Against mischances I have shut my ear; I will not hear the far-off coming doom
There are more ways to heaven than mortals know; One reaches it through solemn praise and prayer,
Amidst the lottery of days I draw More blanks than prizes; though the hand of hope
In famed Sakoontala I read tonight How King Dushyanta, in a moment, knew
So dainty white my lady's fancies are That mine but sully her most abject thought;
I was love's toy and froward instrument-- If that be love which gives itself away
Lone echoes from the dim cloud-covered shore Of Death are booming in my throbbing brain.
|
|
| |