sonnet I

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

William Shakespeare

I do not regret

I do not regret, complain, or weep,
All passes, like smoke off the white apple trees.
Autumn’s gold has me in its withering grip.
I shall never be young again.

My heart has felt the chill,
It no longer beats as it once did.
The birch woods cotton print
No more tempts me to roam barefoot.

Spirit of wandering, less and less
Do you stir my lips’ flame.
Oh, my lost freshness, storminess
Of eye, passion’s flood time.

Oh life, do my desires
Grow tamer, or was it all a dream?
As though, in spring’s echoing early hours,
I had galloped by on a pink steed.

We are all mortal. Silently
The maples spill the copper of their leaves.
May you be blessed for evermore
That you came— to flourish and to die.

Esenin

sesamo

The reflection is
what’s real.
The river
and sky
are doors to take us
to the Eternal.
Down beds of frogs
or beds of bright stars
our love will go off, singing
the morning of the great flight.
The reflection is
what’s real.
Only a heart remains,
only one wind.
Don’t weep!
Near or far,
it’s the same.
Eternal Narcissus,*
Nature’s way.

Federico Garcia Lorca