Written by
Delmira Agustini |
SpanishLa luna es pálida y triste, la luna es exangüe y yerta.La media luna figúraseme un suave perfil de muerta…Yo que prefiero a la insigne palidez encarecidaDe todas las perlas árabes, la rosa recién abierta,En un rincón del terruño con el color de la vida,Adoro esa luna pálida, adoro esa faz de muerta!Y en el altar de las noches, como una flor encendidaY ebria de extraños perfumes, mi alma la inciensa rendida.Yo sé de labios marchitos en la blasfemia y el vino,Que besan tras de la orgia sus huellas en el camino;Locos que mueren besando su imagen en lagos yertos…Porque ella es luz de inocencia, porque a esa luz misteriosaAlumbran las cosas blancas, se ponen blancas las cosas,Y hasta las almas más negras toman clarores inciertos! EnglishThe moon is pallid and sad, the moon is bloodless and cold.I imagine the half-moon as a profile of the dead…And beyond the reknowned and praised pallorOf Arab pearls, I prefer the rose in recent bud.In a corner of this land with the colors of earth,I adore this pale moon, I adore this death mask!And at the altar of the night, like a flower inflamed,Inebriated by strange perfumes, my soul resigns.I know of lips withered with blasphemy and wine;After an orgy they kiss her trace in the lane.Insane ones who die kissing her image in lakes…Because she is light of innocence, because white thingsIlluminate her mysterious light, things taking on white,And even the blackest souls become uncertainly bright.
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Written by
Edna St. Vincent Millay |
When I too long have looked upon your face,
Wherein for me a brightness unobscured
Save by the mists of brightness has its place,
And terrible beauty not to be endured,
I turn away reluctant from your light,
And stand irresolute, a mind undone,
A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight
From having looked too long upon the sun.
Then is my daily life a narrow room
In which a little while, uncertainly,
Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,
Among familiar things grown strange to me
Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,
Till I become accustomed to the dark.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
We talked of yesteryears, of trails and treasure,
Of men who played the game and lost or won;
Of mad stampedes, of toil beyond all measure,
Of camp-fire comfort when the day was done.
We talked of sullen nights by moon-dogs haunted,
Of bird and beast and tree, of rod and gun;
Of boat and tent, of hunting-trip enchanted
Beneath the wonder of the midnight sun;
Of bloody-footed dogs that gnawed the traces,
Of prisoned seas, wind-lashed and winter-locked;
The ice-gray dawn was pale upon our faces,
Yet still we filled the cup and still we talked.
The city street was dimmed. We saw the glitter
Of moon-picked brilliants on the virgin snow,
And down the drifted canyon heard the bitter,
Relentless slogan of the winds of woe.
The city was forgot, and, parka-skirted,
We trod that leagueless land that once we knew;
We saw stream past, down valleys glacier-girted,
The wolf-worn legions of the caribou.
We smoked our pipes, o'er scenes of triumph dwelling;
Of deeds of daring, dire defeats, we talked;
And other tales that lost not in the telling,
Ere to our beds uncertainly we walked.
And so, dear friends, in gentler valleys roaming,
Perhaps, when on my printed page you look,
Your fancies by the firelight may go homing
To that lone land that haply you forsook.
And if perchance you hear the silence calling,
The frozen music of star-yearning heights,
Or, dreaming, see the seines of silver trawling
Across the sky's abyss on vasty nights,
You may recall that sweep of savage splendor,
That land that measures each man at his worth,
And feel in memory, half fierce, half tender,
The brotherhood of men that know the North.
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Written by
Amy Lowell |
Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign
To put upon the cover of this book?
Who heard thee singing in the distance dim,
The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood,
When the damp freshness of the morning earth
Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song?
Who followed over moss and twisted roots,
And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vines
Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly,
While ever clearer came the dropping notes,
Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed
Thee singing on a spray of branching beech,
Hidden, then seen; and always that same song
Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate,
Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood?
We do not know what bird thou art. Perhaps
That fairy bird, fabled in island tale,
Who never sings but once, and then his song
Is of such fearful beauty that he dies
From sheer exuberance of melody.
For this they took thee, little bird, for this
They captured thee, tilting among the leaves,
And stamped thee for a symbol on this book.
For it contains a song surpassing thine,
Richer, more sweet, more poignant. And the poet
Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart
Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew
A little while, and then he died; too frail
To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song.
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