Los más leídos ▸
Sir Thomas Wyatt
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not--yet can I scape no wise--
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
A WOMAN waits for me—she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were
lacking.
Sex contains all,
Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk;
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth,
These are contain’d in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of itself.
Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex,
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.
in matters of passion
I should have been a fly
I have grown many
hands and eyes
to meet the sweet weather
of her selves
As he stumbles on the bus
he proclaims to the driver,
“I drank her under the table!”
How does one “drink” an
other; consume this other?
What role, the table, under which
his Passions play?
I do not wish to forsake this one or this other,
though I swear I do not know them.
I only know he stands, arms outstretched,
holding bus stanchions across the aisle
in cruciform stance.
I tell myself it is so he will not fall.
What if it is so he will not rise?
I gave you what you needed to hear,
Let's take it day by day.
I didn't wish that upon us, no.
I am the reckless
The one who rebels passionately,
I don't want day by day.
Because I crave here and now
That fleeting spark we both feel,
I dare you catch it.
Live it.
This moment will never resurrect,
Live this feeling
Even just for a while,
We might never have a moment such as this again.
wild
creatures, blinded
by passion, tearing
down the pillars, the
whole damned collonade,
for a good deal of
the night, and
next morning
also
with just a glance, i feel my body
roaring to life, with every cell rising
up in a passion as if in response to
you, my nerves sizzle with the stimulation
as heat rushes through me, filling me up
with great excitement as warmth
envelopes me and nestles deeply
in my chest. this biological reaction,
this primal need for fulfilment, of
starved crevices which yearn, brimming
with red hot desire, sending jolts of electricity
down my spine through my fingertips, finally
bursting out as
i see you smile, just as you always do, and my body slows with a shuddering jolt.
suddenly, all i can taste in my mouth is the overwhelming sweetness of you, you, you.
Come to me in the baby hours of morning . . . when the moon is a full grown woman letting her platinum veil trail from heaven . . . before high hills toss a yellow sun into the sky like a boy with a rubber ball
Let us meet beside a cool tall pine with stars in her hair . . . only a pine . . . the thin green fingers of grass . . . and the small hushed voices of woodfolk
I must sense you as you come to me . . . the warmth of you like a rolling prairie fire . . . scaring flame . . . eating into my mind with sharp hot teeth
Moon slivers, sun parings, a basket of ripened dreams . . . show me these lovely things again . . .
No firefly more forlorn, more gravely strays
Among the glories of the morning tree
Than I, who glide almost invisibly
Where apple boughs are white as brides' bouquets.
Beneath the arches of the orchard ways,
Only one tulip, that I start to see,
As though my own heart had dropped out of me,
Seems to have guessed that I, too, am ablaze.
My blood is full of gleamings like seafoam,
My body brims with something of the moon
And shakes, as if with wings that would unfold.
So, after dark, I bar the doors of home,
Lest those, who think that I am grey at noon,
Should stare at night to see that I am gold.
My dear, my dear, I know
More than another
What makes your heart beat so;
Not even your own mother
Can know it as I know,
Who broke my heart for her
When the wild thought,
That she denies
And has forgot,
Set all her blood astir
And glittered in her eyes.
I said, "My youth is gone
Like a fire beaten out by the rain,
That will never sway and sing
Or play with the wind again."
I said, "It is no great sorrow
That quenched my youth in me,
But only little sorrows
Beating ceaselessly."
I thought my youth was gone,
But you returned--
Like a flame at the call of the wind
It leaped and burned;
Threw off its ashen cloak,
And gowned anew
Gave itself like a bride
Once more to you.