Pace non trovo
by Francesco Petrarch (1304-1374)

Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra;
e temo, et spero; et ardo, et son un ghiaccio;
et volo sopra ’l cielo, et giaccio in terra;
et nulla stringo, et tutto ’l mondo abbraccio.

Tal m’à in pregion, che non m’apre né serra,
né per suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio;
et non m’ancide Amore, et non mi sferra,
né mi vuol vivo, né mi trae d’impaccio.

Veggio senza occhi, et non ò lingua et grido;
et bramo di perir, et cheggio aita;
et ò in odio me stesso, et amo altrui.

Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido;
egualmente mi spiace morte et vita:
in questo stato son, donna, per voi.

“Aura che quelle chiome bionde et crespe” (Sonnet 127)
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch) (1304-1374)

Aura che quelle chiome bionde et crespe
cercondi et movi, et se’ mossa da loro,
soavemente, et spargi quel dolce oro,
et poi ’l raccogli, e ’n bei nodi il rincrespe,

tu stai nelli occhi ond’amorose vespe
mi pungon sí, che ’nfin qua il sento et ploro,
et vacillando cerco il mio tesoro,
come animal che spesso adombre e ’ncespe:

ch’or me ’l par ritrovar, et or m’accorgo
ch’i’ ne son lunge, or mi sollievo or caggio,
ch’or quel ch’i’ bramo, or quel ch’è vero scorgo.

Aër felice, col bel vivo raggio
rimanti; et tu corrente et chiaro gorgo,
ché non poss’io cangiar teco vïaggio?

Midi
by Charles Marie René Leconte de Lisle (1818-1894)

Midi, roi des étés, épandu sur la plaine,
Tombe en nappes d’argent des hauteurs du ciel bleu.
Tout se tait. L’air flamboie et brûle sans haleine;
La terre est assoupie en sa robe de feu.

L’étendue est immense et les champs n’ont point d’ombre,
Et la source est tarie où buvaient les troupeaux;
La lointaine forêt, dont la lisière est sombre,
Dort là-bas, immobile, en un pesant repos.

Seuls, les grands blés mûris, tels qu’une mer dorée,
Se déroulent au loin, dédaigneux du sommeil;
Pacifiques enfants de la terre sacrée,
Ils épuisent sans peur la coupe du soleil.

Parfois, comme un soupir de leur âme brûlante,
Du sein des épis lourds qui murmurent entre eux,
Une ondulation majestueuse et lente
S’éveille, et va mourir à l’horizon poudreux.

Non loin, quelques bœufs blancs, couchés parmi les herbes,
Bavent avec lenteur sur leurs fanons épais,
Et suivent de leurs yeux languissants et superbes
Le songe intérieur qu’ils n’achèvent jamais.

Homme, si, le cœur plein de joie ou d’amertume,
Tu passais vers midi dans les champs radieux,
Fuis! la nature est vide et le soleil consume:
Rien n’est vivant ici, rien n’est triste ou joyeux.

Mais si, désabusé des larmes et du rire,
Altéré de l’oubli de ce monde agité,
Tu veux, ne sachant plus pardonner ou maudire,
Goûter une suprême et morne volupté,

Viens! Le soleil te parle en paroles sublimes;
Dans sa flamme implacable absorbe-toi sans fin;
Et retourne à pas lents vers les cités infimes,
Le cœur trempé sept fois dans le néant divin.

The Talented Man
by Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1802-1839)

Dear Alice! you’ll laugh when you know it, —
      Last week, at the Duchess’s ball,
I danced with the clever new poet, —
      You’ve heard of him, — Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
      I wish you had seen Lady Anne!
It really was very romantic,
      He is such a talanted man!

He came up from Brazenose College,
      Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge
      Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
      As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
      I’m sure he’s a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful; —
      Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
      The stories not always quite true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
      May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer, — good gracious!
      Chez nous — in a talented man.

He sneers, — how my Alice would scold him! —
      At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed — only think! — when I told him
      How we cried o’er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
      I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment’s quite out of fashion,
      It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
      Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt — which is silly — to quarrel,
      And fond — which is sad — of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
      For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager’s malice; —
      She does hate a talented man!

He’s hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
      Is all that these eyes can adore;
He’s lame, — but Lord Byron was lame, love,
      And dumpy, — but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice, — such a voice! my sweet creature,
      It’s like your Aunt Lucy’s toucan:
But oh! what’s a tone or a feature,
      When once one’s a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season,
      Has talked of Sir Geoffrey’s estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
      He has been less horrid of late.
But today, when we drive in the carriage,
      I’ll tell her to lay down her plan; —
If ever I venture on marriage,
      It must be a talented man!

P.S. — I have found, on reflection,
      One fault in my friend, — entre nous;
Without it, he’d just be perfection; —
      Poor fellow, he has not a sou!
And so, when he comes in September
      To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I’ve promised mamma to remember
      He’s only a talented man!

Prayer
by Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

Great God! I ask thee for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself;
That in my action I may soar as high
As I can now discern with this clear eye.

And next in value, which thy kindness lends,
That I may greatly disappoint my friends,
Howe’er they think or hope it that may be,
They may not dream how thou ‘st distinguished me.

That my weak hand may equal my firm faith,
And my life practice more than my tongue saith;
That my low conduct may not show,
Nor my relenting lines,
That I thy purpose did not know,
Or overrated thy designs.

“¡Oh claro honor del líquido elemento”
by Luis de Góngora y Argote (1561-1627)

¡Oh claro honor del líquido elemento,
dulce arroyuelo de corriente plata
cuya agua entre la hierba se dilata
con regalado son, con paso lento!

Pues la por quien helar y arder me siento,
mientras en ti se mira, Amor retrata
de su rostro la nieve y la escarlata
en tu tranquilo y blando movimiento,

véte como te vas; no dejes floja
la undosa rienda al cristalino freno
con que gobiernas tu veloz corriente;

que no es bien que confusamente acoja
tanta belleza en su profundo seno
el gran señor del húmido tridente.