Iron gold poetry

 I loved you before I ever met you. 

I will love you until the sun dies. 

And when it does, 

I will love you in the darkness.

- red rising

Lo Fatal

Dichoso el árbol que es apenas sensitivo,

y más la piedra dura, porque esa ya no siente,

pues no hay dolor más grande que el dolor de ser vivo,

ni mayor pesadumbre que la vida consciente.

Ser, y no saber nada, y ser sin rumbo cierto,

y el temor de haber sido y un futuro terror…

Y el espanto seguro de estar mañana muerto,

y sufrir por la vida y por la sombra y por

lo que no conocemos y apenas sospechamos,

y la carne que tienta con sus frescos racimos

y la tumba que aguarda con sus fúnebres ramos,

¡y no saber adónde vamos,

ni de dónde venimos…!

 

-Ruben Dario

 

 

We Real Cool

THE POOL PLAYERS

SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.

Tonight I Can Write the Saddest

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is shattered

and the blue stars 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, and 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 shattered 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 searches for her as though to go to her.

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. Like my kisses before.

Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite 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 sould 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.

-Neruda

LOVE is the passion which endureth

LOVE is the passion which endureth,

Which neither time nor absence cureth;

Which nought of earthly change can sever:

Love is the light which shines for ever.

 

What cold and selfish breasts deem madness

Lives in its depths of joy and sadness;

In hearts, on lips, of flame it burneth —

One is its world, to one it turneth.
 

Its chain of gold — what hand can break it?

Its deathless hold — what force can shake it?

Mere passion aught of earth may sever,

But souls that love, love on for ever.

 

-Mary Anne Lamb

She walks in Beauty

She walks in Beauty, like the night

    Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

    Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

    Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

    Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

    Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

    But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

    A heart whose love is innocent!

-Byron

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.

-Neruda