He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead - by William Butler Yeats

Were you but lying cold and dead,
And lights were paling out of the Wes,
You would come hither, and bend your head,
And I would lay my head on your breast;
And you would murmur tender words,
Forgiving me, because you were dead:
Nor would you rise and hasten away,
Though you have the will of the wild birds,
But know your hair was bound and wound
About the stars and moon and sun:
O would, beloved, that you lay
Under the dock-leaves in the ground,
While lights were paling one by one.

He Remembers Forgotten Beauty - by William Butler Yeats

When my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
That has long faded from the world;
The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
The love-tales wrought with silken thread
By dreaming ladies upon cloth
That has made fat the murderous moth;
The roses that of old time were
Woven by ladies in their hair,
The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
Through many a sacred corridor
Where such grey clouds of incense rose
That only God's eyes did not close:
For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,
A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew.
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,
Their swords upon their iron knees,
Brood her high lonely mysteries.

Wine Comes In At The Mouth - by William Butler Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That's all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and I sigh.

Oil and Blood - by William Butler Yeats

In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli

Bodies of holy men and women exude

Miraculous oil, odour of violet.

But under heavy loads of trampled clay

Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;

Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.

Espérame y volveré

       Espérame y volveré.
Espera ansiosa...
Espera, cuando las lluvias
traigan tristeza.
Espera, cuando el verano
traiga calor.
Espera, cuando los otros
sean olvidados.
Espera, cuando de lejos
no lleguen cartas.
Espera, aun cuando todos
estén cansados ya de esperar.

       Espérame y volveré.
Ignóralos si te dicen
que es tiempo ya de olvidar.
Deja que mi hijo y mi madre
piensen que yo ya no existo.
Cuando todos mis amigos,
cansados ya de esperar,
se reúnan junto al fuego
y beban el vino amargo
a mi memoria, espera...
Espera, y no te apresures
a vaciar también tu copa.

       Espérame y volveré
a despecho de mil muertes.
Los que no me esperaban
quizá dirán: “Tuvo suerte”.
Ellos no comprenderán
que en el rigor del combate
tu esperar me salvó.
Mas cómo sobreviví,
sólo tú y yo lo sabremos,
pero tú supiste esperar
como nadie esperó. 

Konstantin Símonov
De El diario lírico, 1941-1942

Timid Love

Oft of thy love, my friend, I fondly dreamed;
Such musings made my glad heart throb like flame.
But yet, whene'er I met thy happy glance,
Straightway perplexed and troubled I became.

I feared the impulse soon would pass away,
Thy short caprice of sympathy be flown,
And I, who dreamed of bliss beyond my reach,
Be doubly orphaned, left again alone.

As if thy love were stolen, thy caress,
Sweet and unhoped for, were a phantom frail,
It gleamed, lit up the dark, and then was gone
Brief as a sound, false as a fairy tale;

As if thy tender, deep-blue glance, my love,
By chance or by mistake were given to me;
And in my feverish dreams at night it seems
That with the coming of the dawn 'twill flee.

Thus, parched by desert heats, a wanderer
Spies an oasis, but he doubts it yet;
Is it not some mirage in yon blue sky
Alluring him to rest and to forget?

S. J. Nadson

Cuando mi apasionada súplica ardorosa,
de la llanura del mar
rescató por fin tu pobre alma;
hundida en angustia y tormento,
te retorcías las manos en triste lamento
y condenabas tu innoble pasado.
Y azotada por el recuerdo, ensangrentada,
acuciando la conciencia dormida,
derramaste el espantoso relato
de tu vida, antes de conocernos.
Llena de vergüenza que no moría,
cubierto con las manos el rostro lloroso,
amargas lágrimas en loca cascada
eran la señal de tu infinita desdicha....

N. A. Nekrásov