A Dialogue Between the Soul and Body
by Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

         Soul
O who shall, from this Dungeon, raise
A Soul inslav’d so many ways?
With bolts of Bones, that fetter’d stands
In Feet; and manacled in Hands.
Here blinded with an Eye; and there,
Deaf with the drumming of an Ear.
A Soul hung up, as ’twere, in Chains
Of Nerves, and Arteries, and Veins.
Tortur’d, besides each other part,
In a vain Head, and double Heart.

         Body
O who shall me deliver whole,
From bonds of this Tyrannic Soul?
Which, stretcht upright, impales me so,
That mine own Precipice I go;
And warms and moves this needless Frame:
(A Fever could but do the same.)
And, wanting where its spite to try,
Has made me live to let me die.
A Body that could never rest,
Since this ill Spirit it possest.

         Soul
What Magic could me thus confine
Within another’s Grief to pine?
Where whatsoever it complain,
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain.
And all my care its self employs,
That to preserve, which me destroys:
Constrain’d not only to endure
Diseases, but what’s worse, the Cure:
And ready oft the port to gain,
And Shipwrackt into Health again.

         Body
But Physic yet could never reach
The maladies thou me dost teach;
Whom the first Cramp of Hope dost tear:
And then the Palsy shakes of Fear.
The Pestilence of Love does heat:
Or Hatred’s hidden Ulcer eat.
Joy’s cheerful Madness does perplex:
Or Sorrow’s other Madness vex.
Which Knowledge forces me to know,
And Memory will not forgo.
What but a Soul could have the wit
To build me up for Sin so fit?
So Architects do square and hew,
Green Trees that in the Forest grew.

Stunden
by Yvan Goll (1891-1950)

Wasserträgerinnen
Hochgeschürzte Töchter
Schreiten schwer herab die Totenstraße
Auf den Köpfen wiegend
Einen Krug voll Zeit
Eine Ernte ungepflückter Tropfen
Die schon reifen auf dem Weg hinab
Wasserfälle Flüsse Tränen Nebel Dampf
Immer geheimere Tropfen immer kargere Zeit
Schattenträgerinnen
Schon vergangen schon verhangen
Ewigkeit

El pescador
by José de Espronceda (1808-1842)

   Pescadorcita mía,
Desciende a la ribera,
Y escucha placentera
Mi cántico de amor;
   Sentado en su barquilla,
Te canta su cuidado,
Cual nunca enamorado
Tu tierno pescador.

   La noche el cielo encubre
Y acalla manso el viento,
Y el mar sin movimiento
También en calma está:
   A mi batel desciende,
Mi dulce amada hermosa:
La noche tenebrosa
Tu faz alegrará.

   Aquí apartados, solos,
Sin otros pescadores,
Suavísimos amores
Felice te diré,
   Y en esos dulces labios
De rosas y claveles
El ámbar y las mieles
Que vierten libaré.

   La mar adentro iremos,
En mi batel cantando
Al son del viento blando
Amores y placer;
   Regalarete entonces
Mil varios pececillos
Que al verte, simplecillos,
De ti se harán prender.

   De conchas y corales
Y nácar a tu frente
Guirnalda reluciente,
Mi bien, te ceñiré;
   Y eterno amor mil veces
Jurándote, cumplida
En ti, mi dulce vida,
Mi dicha encontraré.

   No el hondo mar te espante,
Ni el viento proceloso,
Que al ver tu rostro hermoso
Sus iras calmarán;
   Y sílfidas y ondinas
Por reina de los mares
Con plácidos cantares
A par te aclamarán.

   Ven ¡ay! a mi barquilla,
Completa mi fortuna;
Naciente ya a la luna
Refleja el ancho mar;
   Sus mansas olas bate
Süave, leve brisa;
Ven ¡ay! mi dulce Elisa,
Mi pecho a consolar.

A Hand-Mirror
by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

Hold it up sternly—see this it sends back, (who is it? is it you?)
Outside fair costume, within ashes and filth,
No more a flashing eye, no more a sonorous voice or springy step,
Now some slave’s eye, voice, hands, step,
A drunkard’s breath, unwholesome eater’s face, venerealee’s flesh,
Lungs rotting away piecemeal, stomach sour and cankerous,
Joints rheumatic, bowels clogged with abomination,
Blood circulating dark and poisonous streams,
Words babble, hearing and touch callous,
No brain, no heart left, no magnetism of sex;
Such from one look in this looking-glass ere you go hence,
Such a result so soon—and from such a beginning!