Αποσπάσματα από το «Sonnets from the Portuguese»

Τι κοστίζει να προσφέρεις σε κάποιον τις στάχτες της θλίψης σου

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,As once Electra her sepulchral urn,And, looking in thine eyes, I overturnThe ashes at thy feet. Behold and seeWhat a great heap of grief lay hid in me,And how the red wild sparkles dimly burnThrough the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scornCould tread them out to darkness utterly,It might be well perhaps. But if insteadThou wait beside me for the wind to blowThe grey dust up—those laurels on thine head,O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,That none of all the fires shall scorch and shredThe hair beneath. Stand further off then! Go.

Το φιλί της μητέρας που έμεινε στα μαλλιά της

I never gave a lock of hair awayTo a man, Dearest, except this to thee,Which now upon my fingers thoughtfullyI ring out to the full brown length, and say:“Take it.” My day of youth went yesterday;My hair no longer bounds to my foot’s glee,Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree,As girls do, any more: it only mayNow shade on two pale cheeks, the mark of tears,Taught drooping from the head that hangs asideThrough sorrow’s trick. I thought the funeral shearsWould take this first, but Love is justified:Take it thou—finding pure, from all those years,The kiss my mother left here when she died.

Όταν οι σκέψεις για κάποιον γίνονται τόσο πυκνές που τον κρύβουν

I think of thee!—my thoughts do twine and budAbout thee, as wild vines about a treePut out broad leaves, and soon there’s nought to seeExcept the straggling green which hides the wood.Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understoodI will not have my thoughts instead of theeWho art dearer, better! Rather, instantlyRenew thy presence; as a strong tree should,Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,And let these bands of greenery which insphere theeDrop heavily down—burst, shattered, everywhere!Because, in this deep joy to see and hear theeAnd breathe within thy shadow a new air,I do not think of thee—I am too near thee.

Η στιγμή που καταλαβαίνεις πως κάποιος έχει γίνει κομμάτι σου

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall standHenceforth in thy shadow. NevermoreAlone upon the threshold of my doorOf individual life, I shall commandThe uses of my soul, nor lift my handSerenely in the sunshine as before.Without the sense of that which I forboreThy touch upon the palm. The widest landDoom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mineWith pulses that beat double. What I doAnd what I dream include thee, as the wineMust taste of its own grapes. And when I sueGod for myself, He hears that name of thine,And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

Οι τρεις λέξεις που δεν κουράζεσαι να ακούς, και γιατί η επανάληψη δεν είναι κενή

Say over again, and yet once over againThat thou dost love me. Though the word repeatedShould seem a “cuckoo-song,” as thou dost treat it,Remember, never to the hill or plain,Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strainComes the fresh Spring in all her green completed!Beloved, I, amid the darkness greetedBy a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s painCry, “Speak once more—thou lovest!” Who can fearToo many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—tollThe silver iterance!—only minding, Dear,To love me also in silence with thy soul.

Το παιδικό όνομα που της έλεγε η οικογένειά της και η σημασία του όταν το ακούει ξανά.

Yes, call me by my pet name! let me hearThe name I used to run at, when a child,From innocent play, and leave the cowslips plied,To glance up in some face that proved me dearWith the look of its eyes. I miss the clearFond voices, which, being drawn and reconciledInto the music of Heaven’s undefiled,Call me no longer. Silence on the bierWhile I call God—call God!—so let thy mouthBe heir to those who are now exanimate;Gather the north flowers to complete the south,And catch the early love up in the late!Yes, call me by that name—and I, in truth,With the same heart, will answer and not wait.

Όταν δυο ζωές μοιάζουν πολύ διαφορετικές για να μοιραστούν τον ίδιο ουρανό

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!Unlike our uses and our destinies.Our ministering two angels look surpriseOn one another, as they strike athwartTheir wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, artA guest for queens to social pageantries,With gazes from a hundred brighter eyesThan tears even can make mine, to play thy partOf chief musician. What hast thou to doWith looking from the lattice-lights at me,A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing throughThe dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?The chrism is on thine head—on mine, the dew—And Death must dig the level where these agree.

Η τρομακτική διαφορά ανάμεσα σε ένα γράμμα που κρατάς και σε μια φράση που λες δυνατά

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!And yet they seem alive and quiveringAgainst my tremulous hands which loose the stringAnd let them drop down on my knee tonight.This said, he wished to have me in his sightOnce, as a friend; this fixed a day in springTo come and touch my hand—a simple thing,Yet I wept for it!—this—the paper’s light—Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailedAs if God’s future thundered on my past.This said I am thine—and so its ink has paledWith lying at my heart that beat too fast;And this—O Love, thy words have ill availed,If what this said I dared repeat at last!

Πώς ένα φιλί μπορεί να πάρει τη μορφή θρησκευτικής τελετής

First time he kissed me, he but only kissedThe fingers of this hand wherewith I write,And ever since, it grew more clean and white—Slow to world greetings, quick with its “Oh, list,”When the angels speak. A ring of amethystI could not wear here, plainer to my sightThan that first kiss. The second passed in heightThe first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown,With sanctifying sweetness, did precedeThe third upon my lips was folded downIn perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,I have been proud and said: “My love, my own.”

Η διαφορά ανάμεσα στην αγάπη και στην επιβράβευση για την καλή σου συμπεριφορά

If thou must love me, let it be for noughtExcept for love’s sake only. Do not say“I love her for her smile—her look—her wayOf speaking gently—for a trick of thoughtThat falls in well with mine, and certes broughtA sense of pleasant ease on such a day,”—For these things in themselves, Beloved, mayBe changed, or change for thee—and love so wroughtMay be unwrought so. Neither love me forThine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry:A creature might forget to weep, who boreThy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby.But love me for love’s sake, that evermoreThou mayst love on through love’s eternity.