Al matin, quant la soleil est levé
Et je voi m’amor et la bele figure,
Je pleur, aveuglé de la douz beauté.
Ele resplendt plus bele que n’est aventure!
Proi que a nos retorne la nuit obscure.
Quant est calme, et ne serai écrasé
Nos adorerons d’amor le bordure.

Translation:

In the morning, when the sun is risen,
And I see my love and her beautiful face,
I weep, blinded by her sweet beauty.
She shines fairer than is possible!
I pray that the shadowy night will return to us.
When it is quiet, and I am not so overwhelmed,
We will worship the very extremes of love.

Pablo Neruda - Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

somewhere i have never travelled

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands


e. e. cummings

Como Besaras? Enciendanme tus labios Nuestros alientos perdidos entremezclandose Sincroniza nuestro silencio al perezoso pasar de las horas. LLeva el aire aromas de cacao, nuez, canela que me rodean Tiembla conmigo con pausas paralizantes Quizá no pueda respirar más sin respirarte a ti. -Judith Pordon