from A Midsummer Night’s Dream
More strange than true: I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Lament of a Despised Lover
Say, lovelorn heart, that art condemned upon despair to feed,
Why slay the form wherein thou dwellst and make it pine and bleed?
Why serve a lady who of love taketh but little heed?
Alas, poor heart, thy fault, I trow, thou’lt rue in very deed!
Ye weeping eyes with beauty dimmed, unhappy was the day
When first toward a lady false ye let your glances stray.
Methinketh for such grievous fault ye will full dearly pay,
And tears will rob you of your light, and take your pride away.
Alas, thou hapless, foolish tongue, oh say, why wast thou gain
To speak with her, that ever held thy words in proud disdain?
From one thus reckless of thy woe what thoughtest thou to gain?
And thou, poor tortured body, thou art wasted with thy pain.
—translated from the Spanish by Ida Farnell
How Well She Knows to Cast the Noose
How well she knows to cast the noose,
And yet not pay the cattle tax!
She casts the noose on me with her hair,
She captures me with her eye;
She curbs me with her necklace,
She brands me with her seal ring.
—translated from the Ancient Egyptian by Miriam Lichtheim
Nom Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses, riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
Mass of Love
Dawn of a bright June morning,
The birthday of Saint John,
When ladies and their lovers
To hear High Mass are gone.
Yonder goes my lady,
Among them all, the best;
In colored silk mantilla
And many skirts she’s dressed.
Embroidered is her bodice
With gems of pearl and gold.
Her lips of beauty rare
Beguiling sweetness hold.
Faint on the touch of rouge
On cheeks of fairest white,
Sparkling blue her eyes
With subtle art made bright.
Proudly church she entered
Radiant as sun above,
Ladies died of envy
And courtiers, of love.
A singer in the choir
His place lost in the creed;
The priest who read the lesson
The pages did not heed,
No order could restore;
Instead of Amen, Amen,
They sang Amor, Amor.
—translated from the Spanish by Ana Pursche
Restless Love
Through rain, through snow,
Through tempest go!
’Mongst steaming caves,
O’er misty waves,
On, on! still on!
Peace, rest have flown.
Sooner through sadness
I’d wish to be slain,
Than all the gladness
Of life to sustain;
All the fond yearning
That heart feels for heart,
Only seems burning
To make them both smart.
How shall I fly?
Forestwards hie?
Vain were all strife!
Bright crown of life,
Turbulent bliss,—
Love, thou art this!
—translated from the German by E.A. Bowering
from The New Life
Within her eyes my lady beareth Love,
So that whom she regards is gentle made;
All toward her turn, where’er her steps are stayed,
And whom she greets, his heart doth trembling move;
So that with face cast down, all pale to view,
For every fault of his he then doth sigh;
Anger and pride away before her fly:—
Assist me, dames, to pay her honor due.
All sweetness truly, every humble thought,
The heart of him who hears her speak doth hold;
Whence he is blessed who hath seen her erewhile.
What seems she when a little she doth smile
Cannot be kept in mind, cannot be told.
Such strange and gentle miracle is wrought.
—translated from the Italian by Charles Eliot Norton
Love’s Despair
I know not night from day,
Nor thrush from cuckoo gray,
Nor cloud from the sun that shines above thee—
Nor freezing cold from heat,
Nor friend—if friend I meet—
I but know—heart’s love!—I love thee.
Love, that will close life’s span,
Love that grows ever by love-giving:
Love, from the first to last,
Love, till all life be passed,
Love that loves on after living!
—translated from the Gaelic (Irish) by George Sigerson
The Wounded Cupid
Cupid as he lay among
Roses, by a Bee was stung.
Whereupon in anger flying
To his Mother, said thus crying;
Help! O help! your Boy’s a dying.
And why, my pretty Lad, said she?
Then blubbering, replied he,
A winged Snake has bitten me
Which Country people call a Bee.
At which she smil’d; then with her hairs
And kisses drying up his tears:
Alas! said she, my Wag! if this
Such a pernicious torment is:
Come, tell me then, how great’s the smart
Of those, thou woundest with thy Dart!
—translated from the Greek by Robert Herrick
When I Heard at the Close of the Day
When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d,
And else, when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still I was not happy,
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,
When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming, O then I was happy,
O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish’d me more, and the beautiful day pass’d well,
And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came my friend,
And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me toward me, whispering to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,
In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.
Passing Cloud
Setting sun
You’re on the run:
Late afternoon
And gone so soon!
What are you scared of? What’s the rush?
Is it the spears of light that shine
Back at you from rock and bush?
Is it the dark creeping up on you
Or bad news from the depths of night
That makes you want to hide your light?
Or is it this girl, more beautiful
Than rain the season of drought, whose grace
Is greater by far than the subtle pace
Of a passing cloud when it’s nudged by the wind?
When you and she exchanged glances just now,
It was you who grew pale, it was you who shrank
From the gleam in her eye and the glow of her smile.
Setting sun
You’re on the run:
Late afternoon
And gone so soon!
Have you gone
To warn the moon
That she must face
This greater grace?
The roll of the clouds, the furl of the waves—
A sea of cloud stained purple and red,
The swing of her arms, the swing and the sway
Of her hips as she walks is just like the way
You sway and dip and the end of the day.
Now the clouds turn their backs on you.
They only have eyes for the eyes of the girl:
Eyes that launch love-darts, darts that sink
Into the flanks of the clouds and draw
Droplets of blood that stain the sky.
Setting sun
You’re on the run:
Late afternoon
And gone so soon…
These are the lines
That seemed to fall
To hand when first
I saw the girl.
Now this is what
I most recall:
The way she reached up to gather fruit
Believing herself to be alone
Until she saw me there, wide-eyed,
As the wind read my mind and set a gust
To part her dress and lay her breast
Bare for the space of an indrawn breath.
Ah, yes, I remember that … and the way
She caught at the cloth and fastened it,
Turning her face from mine, her eyes
Lowered, as if to say: No man
Has seen before what you saw today.
—translated from the Somali by David Harsent
from Díwán-i Shams-i Tabríz
Happy the moment when we are seated in the palace, thou and I,
With two forms and with two figures but with one soul, thou and I.
The colours of the grove and the voice of the birds will bestow immortality
At the time when we come into the garden, thou and I.
The stars of heaven will come to gaze upon us:
We shall show them the moon herself, thou and I.
Thou and I, individuals no more, shall be mingled in ecstasy,
Joyful and secure from foolish babble, thou and I.
All the bright-plumed birds of heaven will devour their hearts with envy
In the place where we shall laugh in such a fashion, thou and I.
This is the greatest wonder, that thou and I, sitting here in the same nook,
Are at this moment both in ‘Irák and Khurásán, thou and I.
—translated from the Persian by Reynold A. Nicholson
Sonnet XXVIII
Alone, and lost in thought, the desert glade
Measuring I roam with lingering steps and slow;
And still a watchful glance around me throw,
Anxious to shun the print of human tread:
No other means I find, no surer aid
From the world’s prying eye to hide my woe:
So well my wild disordered gestures show,
And love-lorn looks, the fire within me bred,
That well I think each mountain, wood and plain,
And river knows, what I from man conceal,
What dreary hues my life’s fool chances dim.
Yet whatever wild or savage paths I’ve taken,
Wherever I wander, love attends me still,
Soft whisp’ring to my soul, and I to him.
—from the Italian, translator unknown
Love
To me he seems like a god
as he sits facing you and
hears you near as you speak
softly and laugh
in a sweet echo that jolts
the heart in my ribs. For now
as I look at you my voice
is empty and
can say nothing as my tongue
cracks and slender fire is quick
under my skin. My eyes are dead
to light, my ears
pound, and sweat pours over me.
I convulse, paler than grass,
and feel my mind slip as I
go close to death.
—translated from the Greek by Willis Barnstone
from The Mu‘allakát
Fair white arms shall she show, as a white she-camel’s
Pure as her’s the long-necked one, yet unmounted.
Twin breasts smooth, shalt thou see, as of ivory polished,
Guarded close from the eyes, the hands of lovers.
Waist how supple, how slim! Thou shalt span it sweetly;
Fair flanks sloped to thine eyes and downward bending.
Broad her hips for desire, than thy tent door wider;
Nay, but thine is her waist, thine own for madness.
—translated from the Arabic by Lady Anne Blunt and Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Love Knows No Winter Sleep
In spring the quince trees
ripen in the girls’ holy orchard
with river waters;
and grapes turn violet
under the shade of luxuriant leafage
and newborn shoots.
But for me, Eros
knows no winter sleep, and as north winds
burn down from Thrace
with searing lightning,
Kypris mutilates my heart with black
and baleful love.
—translated from the Greek by Willis Barnstone
from The Sháhnáma
Manízha, when the time drew nigh
For parting, fain would rest her eye
On Bízhan. When she saw him sad,
She called her handmaidens and bade
Them mingle in the wine’s sweet draught
A drug that steals the sense. By craft
They gave it him, and as he drank,
His head inebriated sank.
Straight she prepared a palanquin,
The sleeping youth was laid within.
On one side was a pleasure-seat,
A couch on the other, all complete
Of sandal-wood. She sprinkled there
Camphor and shed the rose-water.
Soon as they neared Turania’s town
She wrapped him in a hooded gown,
And entered secretly at night
The palace—none but friends knew how—
Made ready a chamber of delight,
And eager for his waking now,
Poured in his ear a medicine
That quickly the dulled sense uncharms:
He woke and found the jessamine
Sweet-bosomed lady in his arms.
Afrásiyáb’s palace! In duress,
And bowered with the fair princess.
—translated from the Persian by Reynold A. Nicholson
My Heart Flutters Hastily
My heart flutters hastily,
When I think of my love of you;
It lets me not act sensibly,
It leaps from its place.
It lets me not put on a dress,
Nor wrap my scarf around me;
I put no paint upon my eyes,
I’m even not anointed.
‘Don’t wait, go there,’ says it to me,
As often as I think of him;
My heart, don’t act so stupidly,
Why do you play the fool?
Sit still, the brother comes to you,
And many eyes as well.
Let not the people say of me:
‘A woman fallen through love!’
Be steady when you think of him,
My heart, do not flutter!
—translated from the Ancient Egyptian by Miriam Lichtheim