A Meditation for his Mistress
by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

You are a tulip seen to-day,
But, dearest, of so short a stay
That where you grew scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower,
Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower
Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose i’ th’ bud,
Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you or grew or stood.

You are a full-spread, fair-set vine,
And can with tendrils love entwine,
Yet dried ere you distil your wine.

You are like balm enclosèd well
In amber or some crystal shell,
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty violet,
Yet withered ere you can be set
Within the virgin’s coronet.

You are the queen all flowers among;
But die you must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.

“Gli occhi di ch’io parlai sí caldamente”
by Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374)

Gli occhi di ch’io parlai sí caldamente,
   E le braccia et le mani et i piedi e ’l viso,
   Che m’avean sí da me stesso diviso,
   E fatto singular da l’altra gente;
Le crespe chiome d’òr puro lucente
   E ’l lampeggiar de l’angelico riso,
   Che solean fare in terra un paradiso,
   Poca polvere son, che nulla sente.
Ed io pur vivo, onde mi doglio et sdegno,
   Rimaso senza ’l lume ch’amai tanto,
   In gran fortuna e ’n disarmato legno.
Or sia qui fine al mio amoroso canto:
   Secca è la vena de l’usato ingegno,
   E la cetera mia rivolta in pianto.

“Quand l’amant sortit”
by Maurice Maeterlinck (1862-1949)

Quand l’amant sortit
(J’entendis la porte)
Quand l’amant sortit
Elle avait souri…

Mais quand il rentra
(J’entendis la lampe)
Mais quand il rentra
Une autre était là…

Et j’ai vu la mort
(J’entendis son âme)
Et j’ai vu la mort
Qui l’attend encore…

Ode
by James Thomson (1700-1748)

Tell me, thou soul of her I love,
      Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
      Appointed for the happy dead?

Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam
      And sometimes share thy lover’s woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
      Can now, alas! no comfort know?

Oh! if thou hover’st round my walk,
      While, under every well-known tree,
I to thy fancied shadow talk,
      And every tear is full of thee,

Should then the weary eye of grief,
      Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,
      Oh visit thou my soothing dream!

L’Adieu du Cavalier
by Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)

Ah Dieu! que la guerre est jolie
Avec ses chants ses longs loisirs
Cette bague je l’ai polie
Le vent se mêle à vos soupirs

Adieu! voici le boute-selle
Il disparut dans un tournant
Et mourut là-bas tandis qu’elle
Riait au destin surprenant