Mostrar mensagens com a etiqueta Edna St. Vincent Millay. Mostrar todas as mensagens
Mostrar mensagens com a etiqueta Edna St. Vincent Millay. Mostrar todas as mensagens

segunda-feira, 21 de março de 2011

(Não sei de onde é a imagem, mas tinha de partilhar.)


LII

Oh, sleep forever in the Latmian cave,

Mortal Endymion, darling of the Moon!

Her silver garments by the senseless wave

Shouldered and dropped and on the shingle strewn,

Her fluttering hand against her forehead pressed,

Her scattered looks that troubled all the sky,

Her rapid footsteps running down the west —

Of all her altered state, oblivious lie!

Whom earthen you, by deathless lips adored,

Wild-eyed and stammering to the grasses thrust,

And deep into her crystal body poured

The hot and sorrowful sweetness of the dust:

Whereof she wanders mad, being all unfit

For mortal love, that might not die of it.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay (source)

segunda-feira, 14 de março de 2011

VI

JARDÍ MAR I MURTRA
(crédito da imagem. que btw foi tirada na Catalunha, pelos vistos.)

No rose that in a garden ever grew,
In Homer's or in Omar's or in mine,
Though buried under centuries of fine
Dead dust of roses, shut from sun and dew
Forever, and forever lost from view,
But must again in fragrance rich as wine
The grey aisles of the air incarnadine
When the old summers surge into a new.
Thus when I swear, "I love with all my heart,"
'Tis with the heart of Lilith that I swear,
'Tis with the love of Lesbia and Lucrece;
And thus as well my love must lose some part
Of what it is, had Helen been less fair,
Or perished young, or stayed at home in Greece.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay (Second April, source)

IV

crédito da imagem

Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu,–farewell!–the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The color and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay (Second April, source)