¿No ves cual prende la flexible yedra
entre las grietas del altar sombrío?
Puesto como enlaza a la marmórea piedra
quiero enlazar tu corazón bien mío.
Ves cual penetra el rayo de la luna
las quietas ondas sin turbar la calma?
Pues tal como se interna en la laguna
quiero bajar al fondo de tu alma.
Quiero en tu corazón, sencillo y tierno,
acurrucar mis sueños entumidos
como al llegar la noche del invierno
se acurrucan las aves en sus nidos.
Don’t you see the lissome creeper,
how it clings to cracks in somber stone?
Well, just as it entwines that marble alter,
my love, that’s how I yearn to entwine your heart.
Don’t you see how peacefully the moonray
enters quiet waves without unsettling their hush?
Just as it passws into the lake, that’s the way
I yearn to sink to the very bottom of your soul.
Inside your simple, tender heart
my numb dreams yearn to snuggle up,
just as, when nights of winter start,
birds cuddle together in cozy nests.
by by Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera
Edited and Translated by Enriqueta Carrington
via Treasury of Mexican Love Poems, Quotations & Proverbs
I see an orchard
where the time has come
But I do not see
A gardener reaching out a hand
Toward its fruits.
Youth goes, vanishing; I wait alone
For somebody I do not wish to name.
BY QASMUNA BINT ISMA’IL
Translated by Christopher Middleton and Leticia Garza-Falcón
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
*Poem found in David Nicholls’ novel, One Day
You and I
The song of love,
and we sing it well
The song is ageless
Heart to heart
Who have seen
What we see
What we know
And lovers who have
Our love is ours
The miracle is this
The more we share…
-Leonard Nimoy, These Words Are For You
He Lived Long and Prospered
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not—yet can I scape no wise—
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost, “The Road Not Taken” (1951)
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
By: Elizabeth Bishop, 1911 – 1979