Written by
Delmira Agustini |
Spanish Yo hacía una divina labor, sobre la rocaCreciente del Orgullo.
De la vida lejana,Algún pétalo vívido me voló en la mañana,Algún beso en la noche.
Tenaz como una loca,Sequía mi divina labor sobre la roca.
Cuando tu voz que funde como sacra campanaEn la nota celeste la vibración humana,Tendió su lazo do oro al borde de tu boca; —Maravilloso nido del vértigo, tu boca!Dos pétalos de rosa abrochando un abismo…—Labor, labor de gloria, dolorosa y liviana;¡Tela donde mi espíritu su fue tramando él mismo!Tú quedas en la testa soberbia de la roca,Y yo caigo, sin fin, en el sangriento abismo! EnglishI was at my divine labor, upon the rockSwelling with Pride.
From a distance,At dawn, some bright petal came to me,Some kiss in the night.
Upon the rock,Tenacious a madwoman, I clung to my work.
When your voice, like a sacred bell,A celestial note with a human tremor,Stretched its golden lasso from the edge of your mouth;—Marvelous nest of vertigo, your mouth!Two rose petals fastened to an abyss…—Labor, labor of glory, painful and frivolous;Fabric where my spirit went weaving herself!You come to the arrogant head of the rock,And I fall, without end, into the bloody abyss!
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Written by
William Topaz McGonagall |
Near by the silent waters of the Mediterranean,
And at the door of an old hut stood a coloured man,
Whose dress was oriental in style and poor with wear,
While adown his furrowed cheeks ran many a tear.
And the poor coloured man seemed very discontent,
And his grief overcame him at this moment;
And he wrung his hands in agony wild,
And he cried, "Oh! help me, great God, to find my child.
"
"And Ada, my dear wife, but now she is dead,
Which fills my poor heart with sorrow and dread;
She was a very loving wife, but of her I'm bereft,
And I and my lost child are only left.
And, alas! I know not where to find my boy,
Who is dear to me and my only joy;
But with the help of God I will find him,
And this day in search of him I will begin.
"
So Medoo leaves Turkey and goes to France,
Expecting to find his boy there perhaps by chance;
And while there in Paris he was told
His boy by an Arab had been sold
To a company of French players that performed in the street,
Which was sad news to hear about his boy Popeet;
And while searching for him and making great moan,
He was told he was ill and in Madame Mercy's Home.
Then away went Medoo with his heart full of joy,
To gaze upon the face of his long-lost boy;
Who had been treated by the players mercilessly,
But was taken to the home of Madame Celeste.
She was a member of the players and the leader's wife,
And she loved the boy Popeet as dear as her life,
Because she had no children of her own;
And for the poor ill-treated boy often she did moan.
And when Popeet's father visited the Home,
He was shown into a room where Popeet lay alone,
Pale and emaciated, in his little bed;
And when his father saw him he thought he was dead.
And when Popeet saw his father he lept out of bed,
And only that his father caught him he'd been killed dead;
And his father cried, " Popeet, my own darling boy,
Thank God I've found you, and my heart's full of joy.
"
Then Madame Mercy's tears fell thick and fast,
When she saw that Popeet had found his father at last;
Then poor Popeet was taken home without delay,
And lived happy with his father for many a day.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
[Pg 178] SONNET CLXIV.
L' aura celeste che 'n quel verde Lauro.
HER HAIR AND EYES.
The heavenly airs from yon green laurel roll'd,
Where Love to Phœbus whilom dealt his stroke,
Where on my neck was placed so sweet a yoke,
That freedom thence I hope not to behold,
O'er me prevail, as o'er that Arab old
Medusa, when she changed him to an oak;
Nor ever can the fairy knot be broke
Whose light outshines the sun, not merely gold;
I mean of those bright locks the curlèd snare
Which folds and fastens with so sweet a grace
My soul, whose humbleness defends alone.
Her mere shade freezes with a cold despair
My heart, and tinges with pale fear my face;
And oh! her eyes have power to make me stone.
Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXCIV.
I' piansi, or canto; che 'l celeste lume.
AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.
I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light
That living sun conceals not from my view,
But virtuous love therein revealeth true
His holy purposes and precious might;
Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs
To shorten of my life the friendless course,
Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force
To forward mine escape, nor even wings.
But so profound and of so full a vein
My suff'ring is, so far its shore appears,
Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive:
Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,
But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,
And checks my grief and wills me to survive.
Macgregor.
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