I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You, By: Pablo Neruda

I do not love you except because I love you;

I go from loving to not loving you,

From waiting to not waiting for you

My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it’s you the one I love;

I hate you deeply, and hating you

Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you

Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume

My heart with its cruel

Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who

Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,

Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

***

Dream’s Sake

Sonnet: July 18th 1787, by William Lisle Bowles

O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay

Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)

The faint pang stealest unperceived away;

On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear

That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,

I may look back on every sorrow past,

And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile –

As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour,

Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower

Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while: –

Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,

Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

Dream’s Sake

Conflict of Contrary Passions in a Love, By: – Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)

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 boldeth me not, yet can I  scape nowise:

Nor letteth me live nor die at my devise;

And yet of death it giveth me occasion.

Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain (complain)

I desire to perish, and yet I ask health:

I love another, and thus I hate myself:

I feed me in sorrow, and laugh at all my pain.

Likewise displeaseth me both death and life,

And my delight is causer of my strife.

Dream’s Sake

The Seven Ages of Man, By: Shakespeare

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players,

They have their exits and entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice

In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws, and modern instances,

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,

His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide,

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again towards childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

***

Dream’s Sake

An Ode to Idleness, By: Henry Davis

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.