Written by
T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot |
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question.
.
.
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate,
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute win reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
.
.
.
.
.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep .
.
.
tired .
.
.
or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet-and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.
"
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along
the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a
screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.
"
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old .
.
.
I grow old .
.
.
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
|
Written by
Delmira Agustini |
Spanish Yo te diré los sueños de mi vidaEn lo más hondo de la noche azul…Mi alma desnuda temblará en tus manos,Sobre tus hombros pesará mi cruz.
Las cumbres de la vida son tan solas,Tan solas y tan frías! Y encerréMis ansias en mí misma, y toda enteraComo una torre de marfil me alcé.
Hoy abriré a tu alma el gran misterio;Tu alma es capaz de penetrar en mí.
En el silencio hay vértigos de abismo:Yo vacilaba, me sostengo en ti.
Muero de ensueños; beberé en tus fuentesPuras y frescas la verdad, yo séQue está en el fondo magno de tu pechoEl manantial que vencerá mi sed.
Y sé que en nuestras vidas se produjoEl milagro inefable del reflejo…En el silencio de la noche mi almaLlega a la tuya como a un gran espejo.
Imagina el amor que habré soñadoEn la tumba glacial de mi silencio!Más grande que la vida, más que el sueño,Bajo el azur sin fin se sintió preso.
Imagina mi amor, amor que quiereVida imposible, vida sobrehumana,Tú que sabes si pesan, si consumenAlma y sueños de Olimpo en carne humana.
Y cuando frente al alma que sentiaPoco el azur para bañar sus alas,Como un gran horizonte aurisoladoO una playa de luz se abrió tu alma:Imagina! Estrecha vivo, radianteEl Imposible! La ilusión vivida!Bendije a Dios, al sol, la flor, el aire,La vida toda porque tú eras vida!Si con angustia yo compré esta dicha,Bendito el llanto que manchó mis ojos!¡Todas las llagas del pasado ríenAl sol naciente por sus labios rojos!¡Ah! tú sabrás mi amor, mas vamos lejosA través de la noche florecida;Acá lo humano asusta, acá se oye,Se ve, se siente sin cesar la vida.
Vamos más lejos en la noche, vamosDonde ni un eco repercuta en mí,Como una flor nocturna allá en la sombraY abriré dulcemente para ti.
EnglishI will tell you the dreams of my lifeOn this deepest of blue nights.
In your hands my soul will tremble,On your shoulders my cross will rest.
The summits of life are lonely,So lonely and so cold! I lockedMy yearnings inside, and all resideIn the ivory tower I raised.
Today I will reveal a great mystery;Your soul has the power to penetrate me.
In silence are vertigos of the abyss:I hesitate, I am sustained in you.
I die of dreams; I will drink truth,Pure and cool, from your springs.
I know in the well of your breastIs a fountain that vanquishes my thirst.
And I know that in our lives, thisIs the inexpressible miracle of reflection…In the silence, my soul arrives at yoursAs to a magnificent mirror.
Imagine the love I dreamedIn the glacial tomb of silence!Larger than life, larger than dream,A love imprisoned beneath an azure without end.
Imagine my love, love which desiresImpossible life, superhuman life,You who know how it burdens and consumes,Dreams of Olympus bound by human flesh.
And when met with a soul which foundA bit of azure to bathe its wings,Like a great, golden sun, or a shoreMade of light, your soul opened:Imagine! To embrace the Impossible!Radiant! The lived illusion!Blessed be God, the sun, the flower, the air,And all of life, because you are life!If I bought this happiness with my anguish,Bless the weeping that stains my eyes!All the ulcers of the past laughAt the sun rising from red lips!Ah you will know, My Love,We will travel far across the flowery night;There what is human frightens, there you can hear it,See it, feel it, life without end.
We go further into night, we goWhere in me not an echo reverberates,Like a nocturnal flower in the shade,I will open sweetly for you.
|
Written by
Bertolt Brecht |
¡Aprende las cosas elementarias!
¡Para aquellos a quienes les ha llegado la hora nunca es demasadio tarde!
Aprende el abecedario.
No bastará,
¡pero apréndolo! ¡No dejes que te desanimen!
¡Comienza! Debes saber todo.
Tienes que ser dirigente.
¡Aprende, hombre en el asilo!
¡Aprende, hombre en la prisión!
¡Aprende, mujer en la cocina!
¡Aprende, tú que tienes 60 años!
Tienes que ser dirigente.
¡Busca la esquela, tú que no tienes casa!
¡No tengas miedo de preguntar, camarada!
No dejes que te induzcan a nada.
¡Investiga por ti mismo!
Lo que no sepas tú mismo no lo conoces.
Examina los detalles a fondo;
eres tú él que paga las consequencias.
Pon tu dedo en cada detalle, pregunta: ¿Cómo llegó esto aqui?
Tienes que ser dirigente.
|
Written by
Heather McHugh |
The gh comes from rough, the o from women's,
and the ti from unmentionables--presto:
there's the perfect English instance of
unlovablility--complete
with fish.
Our wish was for a better
revelation: for a correspondence--
if not lexical, at least
phonetic; if not with Madonna
then at least with Mary Magdalene.
Instead we get the sheer
opacity of things: an accident
of incident, a tracery of history: the dung
inside the dungarees, the jock strap for a codpiece, and
the ruined patches bordering the lip.
One boot (high-heeled) could make
Sorrento sorry, Capri corny, even little Italy
a little ill.
Low-cased, a lover looks
one over--eggs without ease, semen without oars--
and there, on board, tricked out in fur and fin,
the landlubber who wound up captain.
Where's it going,
this our (H)MS? More west? More forth? The quest
itself is at a long and short behest: it's wound
in winds.
(Take rough from seas, and women from the shore,
unmentionables out of mind).
We're here
for something rich, beyond
appearances.
What do I mean? (What can one say?)
A minute of millenium, unculminating
stint, a stonishment: my god, what's
utterable? Gargah, gatto, goat.
Us animals is made
to seine and trawl and drag and gaff
our way across the earth.
The earth, it rolls.
We dig, lay lines, book arguably
perfect passages.
But earth remains untranslated,
unplumbed.
A million herring run where we
catch here a freckle, there a pock; the depths to which things live
words only glint at.
Terns in flight work up
what fond minds might
call syntax.
As for that
semantic antic in the distance, is it
whiskered fish, finned cat? Don't settle
just for two.
Some bottomographies are
brooded over, and some skies swum through.
.
.
|
Written by
Rudyard Kipling |
A.
D.
980-1016
It is always a temptation to an armed and agile nation
To call upon a neighbour and to say: --
"We invaded you last night -- we are quite prepared to fight,
Unless you pay us cash to go away.
"
And that is called asking for Dane-geld,
And the people who ask ti explain
That you've only to pay 'em the Dane-geld
And then you'll get rid of the Dane!
It is always a temptation to a rich and lazy nation,
To puff and look important and to say: --
"Though we know we should defeat you, we have not the time to meet you.
We will therefore pay you cash to go away.
"
And that is called paying the Dane-geld;
But we've proved it again and again,
That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld
You never get rid of the Dane.
It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation,
For fear they should succumb and go astray;
So when you are requested to pay up or be molested,
You will find it better policy to say: --
"We never pay any-one Dane-geld,
No matter how trifling the cost;
For the end of that game is oppression and shame,
And the nation that plays it is lost!"
|
Written by
Amy Lowell |
The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane
and looked out
at the bright sunshiny morning.
The cobble-stones of
the square
glistened like mica.
In the trees, a breeze danced and
pranced,
and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown
water
of the canal.
Down stream slowly drifted a long string
of galliots
piled with crimson cheeses.
The little boy thought they
looked as if
they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs.
He said,
"Oh!" with delight,
and pressed against the window with all his might.
The golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis' gleamed.
His
beak was open
like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged
in it.
"Cock-a-doodle-do," cried the little boy.
"Can't you
hear me
through the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You
should crow
when you see the eggs of your cousin, the great roc.
" But
the golden cock
stood stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind.
He could not understand the little boy, for he said "Cocorico"
when he said anything.
But he was hung in the air to
swing, not to sing.
His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses
drifted away down the canal.
It was very dull there in the big room.
Outside in the
square, the wind
was playing tag with some fallen leaves.
A man passed,
with a dogcart
beside him full of smart, new milkcans.
They rattled
out a gay tune:
"Tiddity-tum-ti-ti.
Have some milk for your tea.
Cream
for your coffee
to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white,"
and the man's sabots beat an accompaniment: "Plop! trop!
milk for your tea.
Plop! trop! drink it to-night.
" It was very pleasant
out there,
but it was lonely here in the big room.
The little boy
gulped at a tear.
It was ***** how dull all his toys were.
They were so
still.
Nothing was still in the square.
If he took his eyes
away a moment
it had changed.
The milkman had disappeared round the
corner,
there was only an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her
head,
picking her way over the shiny stones.
But the wind pulled
the leaves
in the basket this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful
advantage.
The sun patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and
they seemed
sprinkled with silver.
The little boy sighed as he looked
at his disordered
toys on the floor.
They were motionless, and their colours
were dull.
The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun.
There was none
left for toys.
The square was quite empty now.
Only the wind ran round
and round it,
spinning.
Away over in the corner where a street opened
into the square,
the wind had stopped.
Stopped running, that is, for it
never
stopped spinning.
It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated,
and turned.
It burned like a great coloured sun.
It hummed, and buzzed,
and sparked,
and darted.
There were flashes of blue, and long smearing
lines of saffron,
and quick jabs of green.
And over it all was a sheen
like a myriad
cut diamonds.
Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel,
and the little boy's head reeled with watching it.
The
whole square
was filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another,
faster and faster.
The little boy could not speak, he
could only gaze,
staring in amaze.
The wind-wheel was coming down the square.
Nearer and
nearer it came,
a great disk of spinning flame.
It was opposite the window
now,
and the little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more
than the wind which he saw.
A man was carrying a huge
fan-shaped frame
on his shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper
windmills,
each one scurrying round in the breeze.
They were bright
and beautiful,
and the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little
boy
who had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy.
The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed,
for the circling windmills made him dizzy.
Closer and
closer
came the windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy
in the window of the Ambassador's house.
Only a pane
of glass
between the boy and the windmills.
They slid round before
his eyes
in rapidly revolving splendour.
There were wheels and
wheels of colours --
big, little, thick, thin -- all one clear, perfect spin.
The
windmill vendor
dipped and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued
to the window-pane.
Oh! What a glorious, wonderful
plaything!
Rings and rings of windy colour always moving! How had
any one ever preferred
those other toys which never stirred.
"Nursie, come quickly.
Look!
I want a windmill.
See! It is never still.
You
will buy me one, won't you?
I want that silver one, with the big ring of blue.
"
So a servant was sent to buy that one: silver, ringed
with blue,
and smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood
a moment
to pay the vendor.
Then he entered the house, and in
another minute
he was standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on
the end
of a stick which he held out to the little boy.
"But
I wanted a windmill
which went round," cried the little boy.
"That is the
one you asked for,
Master Charles," Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to
do.
"See, it is silver, and here is the blue.
" "But it is
only a blue streak,"
sobbed the little boy.
"I wanted a blue ring, and this
silver
doesn't sparkle.
" "Well, Master Charles, that is what
you wanted,
now run away and play with it, for I am very busy.
"
The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane.
On
the floor
lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick.
But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his
big wheel
of whirring splendour.
It spun round in a blaze like
a whirling rainbow,
and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it seemed
a maze of spattering diamonds.
"Cocorico!" crowed the
golden cock
on the top of the `Stadhuis'.
"That is something worth
crowing for.
"
But the little boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the crumpled
bit of paper on the floor.
|
Written by
Amy Lowell |
First Movement
Thin-voiced, nasal pipes
Drawing sound out and out
Until it is a screeching thread,
Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting,
It hurts.
Whee-e-e!
Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump!
There are drums here,
Banging,
And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones
Of the market-place.
Whee-e-e!
Sabots slapping the worn, old stones,
And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones;
Clumsy and hard they are,
And uneven,
Losing half a beat
Because the stones are slippery.
Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong!
The thin Spring leaves
Shake to the banging of shoes.
Shoes beat, slap,
Shuffle, rap,
And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices,
Little pigs' voices
Weaving among the dancers,
A fine white thread
Linking up the dancers.
Bang! Bump! Tong!
Petticoats,
Stockings,
Sabots,
Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
Red, blue, yellow,
Drunkenness steaming in colours;
Red, yellow, blue,
Colours and flesh weaving together,
In and out, with the dance,
Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
Pigs' cries white and tenuous,
White and painful,
White and --
Bump!
Tong!
Second Movement
Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,
A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,
Cherry petals fall and flutter,
And the white Pierrot,
Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,
Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,
Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth
With his finger-nails.
Third Movement
An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church,
It wheezes and coughs.
The nave is blue with incense,
Writhing, twisting,
Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests.
`Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine';
The priests whine their bastard Latin
And the censers swing and click.
The priests walk endlessly
Round and round,
Droning their Latin
Off the key.
The organ crashes out in a flaring chord,
And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone.
`Dies illa, dies irae,
Calamitatis et miseriae,
Dies magna et amara valde.
'
A wind rattles the leaded windows.
The little pear-shaped candle flames leap and flutter,
`Dies illa, dies irae;'
The swaying smoke drifts over the altar,
`Calamitatis et miseriae;'
The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water,
`Dies magna et amara valde;'
And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them
Stretched upon a bier.
His ears are stone to the organ,
His eyes are flint to the candles,
His body is ice to the water.
Chant, priests,
Whine, shuffle, genuflect,
He will always be as rigid as he is now
Until he crumbles away in a dust heap.
`Lacrymosa dies illa,
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus *****reus.
'
Above the grey pillars the roof is in darkness.
|
Written by
Hilaire Belloc |
Pelagius lived at Kardanoel
And taught a doctrine there
How, whether you went to heaven or to hell
It was your own affair.
It had nothing to do with the Church, my boy,
But was your own affair.
No, he didn't believe
In Adam and Eve
He put no faith therein!
His doubts began
With the Fall of Man
And he laughed at Original Sin.
With my row-ti-tow
Ti-oodly-ow
He laughed at original sin.
Then came the bishop of old Auxerre
Germanus was his name
He tore great handfuls out of his hair
And he called Pelagius shame.
And with his stout Episcopal staff
So thoroughly whacked and banged
The heretics all, both short and tall --
They rather had been hanged.
Oh he whacked them hard, and he banged them long
Upon each and all occasions
Till they bellowed in chorus, loud and strong
Their orthodox persuasions.
With my row-ti-tow
Ti-oodly-ow
Their orthodox persuasions.
Now the faith is old and the Devil bold
Exceedingly bold indeed.
And the masses of doubt that are floating about
Would smother a mortal creed.
But we that sit in a sturdy youth
And still can drink strong ale
Let us put it away to infallible truth
That always shall prevail.
And thank the Lord
For the temporal sword
And howling heretics too.
And all good things
Our Christendom brings
But especially barley brew!
With my row-ti-tow
Ti-oodly-ow
Especially barley brew!
|
Written by
Siegfried Sassoon |
(EGYPTIAN BASE CAMP)
They are gathering round.
.
.
.
Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand,
Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound—
The jangle and throb of a piano .
.
.
tum-ti-tum.
.
.
Drawn by a lamp, they come
Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.
O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land,
You warbling ladies in white.
Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces,
This wall of faces risen out of the night,
These eyes that keep their memories of the places
So long beyond their sight.
Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown
Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale,
He rattles the keys .
.
.
some actor-bloke from town.
.
.
God send you home; and then A long, long trail;
I hear you calling me; and Dixieland.
.
.
.
Sing slowly .
.
.
now the chorus .
.
.
one by one
We hear them, drink them; till the concert’s done.
Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand.
Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.
|
Written by
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz |
My Divine Lysis
Divina Lysi mía:
perdona si me atrevo
a llamarte así, cuando
aun de ser tuya el nombre no merezco.
A esto, no osadía
es llamarte así, puesto
que a ti te sobran rayos,
si en mí pudiera haber atrevimientos.
Error es de la lengua,
que lo que dice imperio
del dueño, en el dominio,
parezcan posesiones en el siervo.
Mi rey, dice el vasallo;
mi cárcel, dice el preso;
y el más humilde esclavo,
sin agraviarlo, llama suyo al dueño.
Así, cuando yo mía
te llamo, no pretendo
que juzguen que eres mía,
sino sólo que yo ser tuya quiero.
Yo te vi; pero basta:
que a publicar incendios
basta apuntar la causa,
sin añadir la culpa del efecto.
Que mirarte tan alta,
no impide a mi denuedo;
que no hay deidad segura
al altivo volar del pensamiento.
Y aunque otras más merezcan,
en distancia del cielo
lo mismo dista el valle
más humilde que el monte más soberbio,
En fin, yo de adorarte
el delito confieso;
si quieres castigarme,
este mismo castigo será premio.
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My Divine Lysis (English)
My divine Lysis:
do forgive my daring,
if so I address you,
unworthy though I am to be known as yours.
I cannot think it bold
to call you so, well knowing
you've ample thunderbolts
to shatter any overweening of mine.
It's the tongue that misspeaks
when what is called dominion--
I mean, the master's rule--
is made to seem possession by the slave.
The vassal says: my king;
my prison, the convict says;
and any humble slave
will call the master his without offense.
Thus, when I call you mine,
it's not that I expect
you'll be considered such--
only that I hope I may be yours.
I saw you-need more be said?
To broadcast a fire,
telling the cause suffices--
no need to apportion blame for the effect.
Seeing you so exalted
does not prevent my daring;
no god is ever secure
against the lofty flight of human thought.
There are women more deserving,
yet in distance from heaven
the humblest of valleys
seems no farther than the highest peak.
In sum, I must admit
to the crime of adoring you;
should you wish to punish me,
the very punishment will be reward.
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