But, soft!

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing; what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head
As is a winged messenger of heaven

William Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet: Act 2, Scene 2

Den Tod

Den Tod niemand zwingen kunnt
Bei allen Menschenkindern,
Das macht' alles unsre Sünd,
Kein Unschuld war zu finden.
Davon kam der Tod so bald
Und nahm über uns Gewalt,
Hielt uns in seinem Reich gefangen.
Halleluja!


Christ lag in Todesbanden
Martin Luther
Cantata BWV 4
Johann Sebastian Bach

View translation.

Love

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.
They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slacking,
And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven – such are but taking
Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.

By Rupert Brooke (1887-1915), English poet

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


By Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), Chilean writer
Cien Sonetos de Amor (100 Love Sonnets)

Originally published in Canto on 7 January 2007

My Begotten Son
Left His heavenly glory for a lowly birth
Treaded the path of earthly sorrows
Endured persecution from His own creation
Died a slow, torturous, and humiliating death

My precious, precious child
I already gave you My Begotten Son
What good shall I withhold from you?
Abide in Me
Trust Me

It's a latitude where you can't tell
whether you're living in dreams or reality
Or ever floating in-between
People say life is but a dream, but these days
I am unsure which is which

Reached up my hand, through the water's surface
into thick air, that felt void
my body hanging mid air

A city of smog underneath
Bustling in an awful silence
Blood trickles down my toes
Drips down, vanishes in the clouds
wait
One drop fell on a man's head
Down his hair, into his scalp

Still he went about his business
Not knowing