Juliet. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Romeo. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Juliet. Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.
Romeo. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is't, my soul? let's talk; it is not day.
Juliet. It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day,
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Romeo. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
gaucelm faidit: alba
Us cavaliers si iazia
ab la re que plus volia;
soven baizan li dizia:
doussa res, ieu que farai?
que·l iorns ve e la nueytz vai.
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu vey lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
Doussa res, s'esser podia
que ia mais alba ni dia
no fos, grans merces seria,
al meyns al luec on estai
fis amicx ab so que·l plai
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu vey lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
Doussa res, que qu'om vos dia,
no cre que tals dolors sia
cum qui part amic d'amia,
qu'ieu per me mezeys o sai.
aylas! quan pauca nueyt fai!
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu ve lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
Doussa res, ieu tanc ma via;
vostres suy, on que ieu sia.
Per Dieu, no m'oblidetz mia,
que·l cor del cors reman sai
ni de vos mais no·m partrai.
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu ve lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
Doussa res, s'ieu no·us vezia,
breumens crezatz que morria,
que·l gratas dezirs m'auciria;
per qu'ieu tost retornarai,
que ses vos vida non ai,
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu vey lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
ab la re que plus volia;
soven baizan li dizia:
doussa res, ieu que farai?
que·l iorns ve e la nueytz vai.
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu vey lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
Doussa res, s'esser podia
que ia mais alba ni dia
no fos, grans merces seria,
al meyns al luec on estai
fis amicx ab so que·l plai
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu vey lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
Doussa res, que qu'om vos dia,
no cre que tals dolors sia
cum qui part amic d'amia,
qu'ieu per me mezeys o sai.
aylas! quan pauca nueyt fai!
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu ve lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
Doussa res, ieu tanc ma via;
vostres suy, on que ieu sia.
Per Dieu, no m'oblidetz mia,
que·l cor del cors reman sai
ni de vos mais no·m partrai.
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu ve lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
Doussa res, s'ieu no·us vezia,
breumens crezatz que morria,
que·l gratas dezirs m'auciria;
per qu'ieu tost retornarai,
que ses vos vida non ai,
ay!
qu'ieu aug que li gaita cria:
via!
sus! qu'ieu vey lo iorn venir
apres l'alba.
fernandes de torneol: alba
Levad' , amigo, que dormides as manhãas frias;
todalas aves do mundo d' amor dizian:
leda m' and' eu.
Levad' , amigo, que dormide'-las frias manhãas;
todalas aves do mundo d' amor cantavan:
leda m' and' eu.
Toda-las aves do mundo d' amor diziam;
do meu amor e do voss' en ment' avian:
leda m' and' eu.
Toda-las aves do mundo d' amor cantavan;
do meu amor e do voss' i enmentavan:
leda m' and' eu.
Do meu amor e do voss' en ment'avian;
vós lhi tolhestes os ramos en que siian:
leda m' and' eu.
Do meu amor e do voss' i enmentavam;
vos lhi tolhestes os ramos en que pousavan
leda m' and' eu.
Vós lhi tolhestes os ramos en que siian
e lhis secastes as fontes en que bevian:
leda m' and' eu.
Vós lhi tolhestes os ramos en que pousavan
e lhis secastes as fontes u se banhavan:
leda m' and' eu.
todalas aves do mundo d' amor dizian:
leda m' and' eu.
Levad' , amigo, que dormide'-las frias manhãas;
todalas aves do mundo d' amor cantavan:
leda m' and' eu.
Toda-las aves do mundo d' amor diziam;
do meu amor e do voss' en ment' avian:
leda m' and' eu.
Toda-las aves do mundo d' amor cantavan;
do meu amor e do voss' i enmentavan:
leda m' and' eu.
Do meu amor e do voss' en ment'avian;
vós lhi tolhestes os ramos en que siian:
leda m' and' eu.
Do meu amor e do voss' i enmentavam;
vos lhi tolhestes os ramos en que pousavan
leda m' and' eu.
Vós lhi tolhestes os ramos en que siian
e lhis secastes as fontes en que bevian:
leda m' and' eu.
Vós lhi tolhestes os ramos en que pousavan
e lhis secastes as fontes u se banhavan:
leda m' and' eu.
william empson: aubade
Hours before dawn we were woken by the quake.
My house was on a cliff. The thing could take
Bookloads off shelves, break bottles in a row.
Then the long pause and then the bigger shake.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
And far too large for my feet to step by.
I hoped that various buildings were brought low.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
It seemed quite safe till she got up and dressed.
The guarded tourist makes the guide the test.
Then I said The Garden? Laughing she said No.
Taxi for her and for me healthy rest.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
The language problem but you have to try.
Some solid ground for lying could she show?
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
None of these deaths were her point at all.
The thing was that being woken he would bawl
And finding her not in earshot he would know.
I tried saying Half an Hour to pay this call.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
I slept, and blank as that I would yet lie.
Till you have seen what a threat holds below,
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me again about Europe and her pains,
Who’s tortured by the drought, who by the rains.
Glut me with floods where only the swine can row
Who cuts his throat and let him count his gains.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
A bedshift flight to a Far Eastern sky.
Only the same war on a stronger toe.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me more quickly what I lost by this,
Or tell me with less drama what they miss
Who call no die for a god for a throw,
Who says after two aliens had one kiss
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
But as to risings, I can tell you why.
It is on contradiction that they grow.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
Up was the heartening and the strong reply.
The heart of standing is we cannot fly.
My house was on a cliff. The thing could take
Bookloads off shelves, break bottles in a row.
Then the long pause and then the bigger shake.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
And far too large for my feet to step by.
I hoped that various buildings were brought low.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
It seemed quite safe till she got up and dressed.
The guarded tourist makes the guide the test.
Then I said The Garden? Laughing she said No.
Taxi for her and for me healthy rest.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
The language problem but you have to try.
Some solid ground for lying could she show?
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
None of these deaths were her point at all.
The thing was that being woken he would bawl
And finding her not in earshot he would know.
I tried saying Half an Hour to pay this call.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
I slept, and blank as that I would yet lie.
Till you have seen what a threat holds below,
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me again about Europe and her pains,
Who’s tortured by the drought, who by the rains.
Glut me with floods where only the swine can row
Who cuts his throat and let him count his gains.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
A bedshift flight to a Far Eastern sky.
Only the same war on a stronger toe.
The heart of standing is you cannot fly.
Tell me more quickly what I lost by this,
Or tell me with less drama what they miss
Who call no die for a god for a throw,
Who says after two aliens had one kiss
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
But as to risings, I can tell you why.
It is on contradiction that they grow.
It seemed the best thing to be up and go.
Up was the heartening and the strong reply.
The heart of standing is we cannot fly.
Monday, September 26, 2005
philip larkin: aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
—The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always.
Not to be here, Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others.
Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
—The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always.
Not to be here, Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others.
Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
amy lowell: aubade
As I would free the white almond from the green husk
So I would strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernel
I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.
So I would strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernel
I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.
carl phillips: aubade, some peaches, after storm
So that each
is its own, now—each has fallen, blond stillness.
Closer, above them,
the damselflies pass as they would over water,
if the fruit were water,
or as bees would, if they weren't
somewhere else, had the fruit found
already a point more steep
in rot, as soon it must, if
none shall lift it from the grass whose damp only
softens further those parts where flesh
goes soft.
There are those
whom no amount of patience looks likely
to improve ever, I always said, meaning
gift is random,
assigned here,
here withheld—almost always
correctly
as it's turned out: how your hands clear
easily the wreckage;
how you stand—like a building for a time condemned,
then deemed historic. Yes. You
will be saved.
is its own, now—each has fallen, blond stillness.
Closer, above them,
the damselflies pass as they would over water,
if the fruit were water,
or as bees would, if they weren't
somewhere else, had the fruit found
already a point more steep
in rot, as soon it must, if
none shall lift it from the grass whose damp only
softens further those parts where flesh
goes soft.
There are those
whom no amount of patience looks likely
to improve ever, I always said, meaning
gift is random,
assigned here,
here withheld—almost always
correctly
as it's turned out: how your hands clear
easily the wreckage;
how you stand—like a building for a time condemned,
then deemed historic. Yes. You
will be saved.
john donne: the break of day
’Tis true, ’tis day; what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise? because ’tis light?
Did we lie down, because ’twas night?
Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst, that it could say,
That being well, I fain would stay,
And that I lov’d my heart and honor so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.
Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, that’s the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise? because ’tis light?
Did we lie down, because ’twas night?
Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst, that it could say,
That being well, I fain would stay,
And that I lov’d my heart and honor so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.
Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, that’s the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.
love's theft in john gamble his booke
Know my dear idol Chloris that all zealous
Here at thine altar I would prostrate stay
But common morn of every hour jealous
To my disaster brings the star of day
Chloris, farewell! Oh! Let me dying vanish
Daylight is come, my delight hence to banish.
Here at thine altar I would prostrate stay
But common morn of every hour jealous
To my disaster brings the star of day
Chloris, farewell! Oh! Let me dying vanish
Daylight is come, my delight hence to banish.
¿john donne?: sweet stay awhile
Sweet stay awhile, why will you rise
The light you see comes from your eyes
The day breaks not, it is my heart
To think that you and I must part
O stay, or else my joys will die
And perish in their infancy.
(Dear let me die in this fair breast
Far sweeter than the Phoenix’ nest
Love raise desire by his sweet charms
Within this circle of thine arms
And let thy blissful kisses cherish
Mine infant joys, that else must perish.)
The light you see comes from your eyes
The day breaks not, it is my heart
To think that you and I must part
O stay, or else my joys will die
And perish in their infancy.
(Dear let me die in this fair breast
Far sweeter than the Phoenix’ nest
Love raise desire by his sweet charms
Within this circle of thine arms
And let thy blissful kisses cherish
Mine infant joys, that else must perish.)
chaucer: aubade (troilus & criseyde)
But whan the cok, comune astrologer,
Gan on his brest to bete and after crowe,
And Lucyfer, the dayes messanger,
Gan for to rise and out hire bemes throwe,
And estward roos, to hym that koude it knowe,
ffortuna Maior, that anoon Criseyde,
With herte soor to Troilus thus seide,
"Myn hertes lif, my trist and my plesaunce,
That I was born, allas, what me is wo,
That day of vs moot make disseueraunce;
ffor tyme it is to ryse and hennes go,
Or ellis I am lost for euere mo.
O nyght, allas, why nyltow ouere vs houe,
As longe as whan Almena lay by Ioue?
"O blake nyght, as folk in bokes rede,
That shapen art by god this world to hide
At certeyn tymes wyth thi derke wede,
That vnder that men myghte in reste abide,
Wel oughten bestes pleyne and folk the chide,
That there as day wyth labour wolde vs breste,
That thow thus fleest and deynest vs nought reste.
"Thow doost, allas, to shortly thyn office,
Thow rakle nyght, ther god, maker of kynde,
The for thyn haste and thyn vnkynde vice
So faste ay to oure hemysperie bynde,
That neuere more vnder the ground thow wynde:
ffor now, for thow so hiest out of Troie,
Haue I forgon thus hastili my ioie."
This Troilus, that with tho wordes felte,
As thoughte hym tho, for pietous distresse
The blody teris from his herte melte,
As he that neuere 3et swich heuynesse
Assayed hadde, out of so gret gladnesse,
Gan ther-with-al Criseyde, his lady deere,
In armes streyne and seyde in this manere:
"O cruel day, accusour of the ioie
That nyght and loue han stole and faste i-wryen,
Acorsed be thi comyng in-to Troye,
ffor euery bore hath oon of thi bryghte yen.
Enuyous day, what list the so to spien?
What hastow lost, why sekestow this place,
Ther god thi light so quenche for his grace?
"Allas, what haue thise loueris the agylte,
Dispitous day? thyn be the peyne of helle!
ffor many a louere hastow slayn and wilte:
Thy pourynge in wol nowher lat hem dwelle.
What profrestow thi light here forto selle?
Go selle it hem that smale selys graue —
We wol the nought, vs nedeth no day haue."
And ek the sonne, Titan, gan he chide,
And seyde, "O fool, wel may men the dispise,
That hast the dawyng al nyght by thi syde,
And suffrest hire so soone vp fro the rise,
fforto disesen loueris in this wyse.
What, holde 3oure bed ther, thow, and ek thi Morwe,
I bidde god, so 3eue 3ow bothe sorwe."
Gan on his brest to bete and after crowe,
And Lucyfer, the dayes messanger,
Gan for to rise and out hire bemes throwe,
And estward roos, to hym that koude it knowe,
ffortuna Maior, that anoon Criseyde,
With herte soor to Troilus thus seide,
"Myn hertes lif, my trist and my plesaunce,
That I was born, allas, what me is wo,
That day of vs moot make disseueraunce;
ffor tyme it is to ryse and hennes go,
Or ellis I am lost for euere mo.
O nyght, allas, why nyltow ouere vs houe,
As longe as whan Almena lay by Ioue?
"O blake nyght, as folk in bokes rede,
That shapen art by god this world to hide
At certeyn tymes wyth thi derke wede,
That vnder that men myghte in reste abide,
Wel oughten bestes pleyne and folk the chide,
That there as day wyth labour wolde vs breste,
That thow thus fleest and deynest vs nought reste.
"Thow doost, allas, to shortly thyn office,
Thow rakle nyght, ther god, maker of kynde,
The for thyn haste and thyn vnkynde vice
So faste ay to oure hemysperie bynde,
That neuere more vnder the ground thow wynde:
ffor now, for thow so hiest out of Troie,
Haue I forgon thus hastili my ioie."
This Troilus, that with tho wordes felte,
As thoughte hym tho, for pietous distresse
The blody teris from his herte melte,
As he that neuere 3et swich heuynesse
Assayed hadde, out of so gret gladnesse,
Gan ther-with-al Criseyde, his lady deere,
In armes streyne and seyde in this manere:
"O cruel day, accusour of the ioie
That nyght and loue han stole and faste i-wryen,
Acorsed be thi comyng in-to Troye,
ffor euery bore hath oon of thi bryghte yen.
Enuyous day, what list the so to spien?
What hastow lost, why sekestow this place,
Ther god thi light so quenche for his grace?
"Allas, what haue thise loueris the agylte,
Dispitous day? thyn be the peyne of helle!
ffor many a louere hastow slayn and wilte:
Thy pourynge in wol nowher lat hem dwelle.
What profrestow thi light here forto selle?
Go selle it hem that smale selys graue —
We wol the nought, vs nedeth no day haue."
And ek the sonne, Titan, gan he chide,
And seyde, "O fool, wel may men the dispise,
That hast the dawyng al nyght by thi syde,
And suffrest hire so soone vp fro the rise,
fforto disesen loueris in this wyse.
What, holde 3oure bed ther, thow, and ek thi Morwe,
I bidde god, so 3eue 3ow bothe sorwe."
william d'avenant: dawn song
The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest,
And climbing shakes his dewy wings.
He takes this window for the East,
And to implore your light he sings—
Awake, awake! the morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are
Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake, awake! break thro’ your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!
And climbing shakes his dewy wings.
He takes this window for the East,
And to implore your light he sings—
Awake, awake! the morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are
Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake, awake! break thro’ your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!
dietmar von aist: tagelied
"Slâfest du, vriedel ziere?
Man wecket uns leider schiere;
Ein vogellîn so wol getân,
daz ist der linden an das zwî gegân."
"Ich was vil sanfte entslâfen.
Nu rüefestû "kint wâfen.
Liep âne leit mac niht sîn.
Swaz du bediutest, daz leiste ich, vriundin mîn."
Diu frouwe begunde weinen.
"du rîtest hinnen und lâst mich eine.
Wenne wilt du wider her zuo mir?
Owê du vürest mîne vröide sant dir!"
Man wecket uns leider schiere;
Ein vogellîn so wol getân,
daz ist der linden an das zwî gegân."
"Ich was vil sanfte entslâfen.
Nu rüefestû "kint wâfen.
Liep âne leit mac niht sîn.
Swaz du bediutest, daz leiste ich, vriundin mîn."
Diu frouwe begunde weinen.
"du rîtest hinnen und lâst mich eine.
Wenne wilt du wider her zuo mir?
Owê du vürest mîne vröide sant dir!"
raimbaut de vaqueiras: alba
Gaita ben, gaiteta del chastel,
Quan la ren que plus m'es bon e bel,
Ai a me trosqua l'alba,
El jorns ven e no-n l'apel.
Joc novel
Mi tol l'alba, l'alba, oc l'alba!
Gait-amics e veilha e crida e bray,
Qu'eu suy ric e so qu'eu plus voilh ai,
Mays enics sui de l'alba
E-l destrics que-l jorn nos fai,
Mi desplai
Plus que l'alba, l'alba, oc l'alba!
Gaitatz vos, gaiteta de la tor,
Del gelos vostre malvays seynor,
Enuios plus que l'alba,
Que za jos parlam d'amor.
Mas paor
Nos fai l'alba, l'alba, oc l'alba!
Domn'adeu! que non puis mais estar:
Malgrat meu m'en coven ad annar;
Mais tan greu m'es de l'alba
Que tan leu la vei levar.
Enganar
Nos vol l'alba, l'alba, oc l'alba!
Quan la ren que plus m'es bon e bel,
Ai a me trosqua l'alba,
El jorns ven e no-n l'apel.
Joc novel
Mi tol l'alba, l'alba, oc l'alba!
Gait-amics e veilha e crida e bray,
Qu'eu suy ric e so qu'eu plus voilh ai,
Mays enics sui de l'alba
E-l destrics que-l jorn nos fai,
Mi desplai
Plus que l'alba, l'alba, oc l'alba!
Gaitatz vos, gaiteta de la tor,
Del gelos vostre malvays seynor,
Enuios plus que l'alba,
Que za jos parlam d'amor.
Mas paor
Nos fai l'alba, l'alba, oc l'alba!
Domn'adeu! que non puis mais estar:
Malgrat meu m'en coven ad annar;
Mais tan greu m'es de l'alba
Que tan leu la vei levar.
Enganar
Nos vol l'alba, l'alba, oc l'alba!
john donne: the sunne rising
Busie old foole, unruly Sunne,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windowes, and trough curtaines call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide
Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices,
Goe tell Court-huntsmen that the King will ride,
Call countrey ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, months, which are the ragges of time.
Thy beames, so reverend and strong
Why shouldest thou thinke?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,
Whether both th'Indias pf spice and Myne
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
Ask for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.
She's all States, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this,
All honour's mimique; All wealth alchimie.
Thou sunne art halfe as happy's wee,
In that the world is contracted thus;
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee
To warme the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here with us, and thou art euery where;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy spheare.
Why dost thou thus,
Through windowes, and trough curtaines call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide
Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices,
Goe tell Court-huntsmen that the King will ride,
Call countrey ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, months, which are the ragges of time.
Thy beames, so reverend and strong
Why shouldest thou thinke?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,
Whether both th'Indias pf spice and Myne
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
Ask for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.
She's all States, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this,
All honour's mimique; All wealth alchimie.
Thou sunne art halfe as happy's wee,
In that the world is contracted thus;
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee
To warme the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here with us, and thou art euery where;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy spheare.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Friday, September 23, 2005
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Monday, September 05, 2005
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Friday, September 02, 2005
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