Esta niña dulce y grave,
tiene un largo cuello de ave,
cuello...
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Mi juventud se torna grave y serena como
un vespertino trozo de paisaje en el agua:
la ebullición sonora de aquel primer asomo
primaveral, deshízose lentamente en mi fragua…Tu risa de oro, de cristal, de plata,
rememora un scherzo ya lejano…
en tu risa hay un eco de sonata,
de pizzicato de violín tzigano.Jugueteando en el nido de tu boca,...
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Sobre mi escritorio, un amigo filósofo ha dejado una calavera para forzar reflexiones profundas.
La muerte. La eterna pesadilla de muerte, que es la vida. Una guadaña y los ojos redondos, vacíos, que engarzaron una mirada.
Macabrisadas, por larga dentadura riente de espanto, las fosas nasales respiran luz, que se ahueca en el cráneo pergaminoso.
Hondo tema de filosofeo,...
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Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,
And yet the monument proclaims it not,
Nor round the sleeper’s name hath chisel wrought
The emblems of a fame that never dies,—
Ivy and amaranth, in a graceful sheaf,
Twined with the laurel’s fair, imperial leaf.
A simple name alone,
To the great world unknown,
Is graven here,... -
I read the marble-lettered name,
And half in bitterness I said:
“As Dante from Ravenna came,
Our poet came from exile—dead.”
And yet, had it been asked of him
Where he would rather lay his head,
This spot he would have chosen. Dim
The city’s hum drifts o’er his grave,
And green above the hollies wave
Their... -
Break not his sweet repose—
Thou whom chance brings to this sequestered ground,
The sacred yard his ashes close,
But go thy way in silence; here no sound
Is ever heard but from the murmuring pines,
Answering the sea’s near murmur;
Nor ever here comes rumor
Of anxious world or war’s foregathering signs.
The bleaching... -
Dismiss your apprehension, pseudo bard,
For no one wishes to disturb these stones,
Nor cares if here or in the outer yard
They stow your impudent, deceitful bones.Your foolish-colored bust upon the wall,
With its preposterous expanse of brow,
Shall rival Humpty Dumpty’s famous fall,
And cheats no cultured Boston people now.... -
He lies low in the levelled sand,
Unsheltered from the tropic sun,
And now of all he knew not one
Will speak him fair in that far land.
Perhaps ’twas this that made me seek,
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide;
A weakness for the weaker side,
A siding with the helpless weak.A palm not far held out a hand,
Hard by a... -
Turning from Shelley’s sculptured face aside,
And pacing thoughtfully the silent aisles
Of the gray church that overlooks the smiles
Of the glad Avon hastening its tide
To join the seaward-winding Stour, I spied
Close at my feet a slab among the tiles
That paved the minster, where the sculptor’s files
Had graven only “Died of Grief,”... -
From the Greek by William M. Hardinge
TENDERLY, ivy, on Sophocles’ grave—right tenderly—twine
Garlanding over the mound network of delicate green.
Everywhere flourish the flower of the rose, and the clustering vine
Pour out its branches around, wet with their glistering sheen.
All for the sake of the wisdom and grace it was his to combine;
Priest...