To the natural beauty we demand abundance,
That the rose of beauty may never die,
But the flower that blooms through, as it is in time to carve,
Should give the memory to its delicate heir;
But thou, who art wedded only to thine own eyes,
Feeding thyself, as a fuel to their fire,
Thee, who art against thyself, treatest thyself too harshly, and turnest a fertile land into a barren field,
Thee, who art against thyself, treatest thyself too harshly.
Against yourself, treating yourself too harshly,
turning a fertile land into a wasteland.
You are now the fresh embellishment of the earth,
And the only front of the fair spring,
Why do you bury the rich source in the tender pistil,
The gentle scornful man, to be mean, but wasteful?
Pity the world, or else, greedy husband,
devour the world's portion, by thee and the grave.
Two
When forty winters besiege thy vermilion face,
And dig deep trenches in the garden of thy beauty,
Thy youthful finery, so much envied,
Will be ragged defeat, and no one shall look:
If then men shall ask thee where thy beauty lies,
Where are the treasures of thy lesser years.
You say, "In these deep-set eyes of mine,
is the shame of avarice, and unprofitable praise."
The uses of thy beauty would be more worthy of praise,
if thou couldst say, "This little child of mine Ninsin
will sum up my account, and forgive my old age,
confirming that his beauty is in the inheritance of thine lineage!
This will regenerate you in the twilight of your old age,
and cause your dying cold blood to feel rewarmed.
Three
Look in the mirror, and tell thy face therein,
Say that now this pang should make another;
If thou dost not hasten to rebuild its temple,
Then deceive the world, and strip thee of thy mother's happiness.
For where is there a woman so ladylike
that her virginal womb will not be plowed by you?
Where is there a man so foolish that he would willingly
make his own grave and extinguish his own blood?
Thou art thy mother's mirror, and in thee
she recalls the fragrant Aprils of her prime:
so likewise from the window of thy twilight thou shalt look out--
with wrinkles all over thy face--thou of these golden years.
But if thou livest and wilt not be remembered,
die alone, and thy likeness with thee.
Four
Handsome prodigal son, why do you exhaust your legacy of
beauty in yourself?
The gift of creation is not bestowed, she only leases;
She is generous, she leases only to the magnanimous.
Why then, fair scornful husband, abuse
That generous gift which is given to thee to pass on to others?
Why is it that the usurer, who loses money, wastes
such a large sum of money, and still cannot get by?
Because since you are doing business only with yourself,
you are cheating your flattering self.
What account will you then take,
when creation calls you back to lie long in her arms?
The beauty thou hast not used will go with thee to the grave;
use it, and live to carry out thy will.
Five
Those hours that once wove this lovely bright eye that all eyes ****ed upon with light and fine work
will one day set their fiendish faces upon it,
and chop up a great beauty into the old ugliness of a dragon's clock:
For the time of the day and night has brought the high summer
to the hideous winter to bring it to fruition;
the life has been taken from you, and you will not be able to use it, but will live to carry out your will.
The life is choked by the frost, the green leaves are all down again,
the snow buries the beauty, and the eye is full of nakedness:
then if the summer has not yet been refined,
and allowed to congeal into a perfumed dew locked up in a glass bottle,
the beauty and the flow of beauty will be truncated together,
and beauty, and the memory of beauty, will no one ever again speak of it:
but The refined flower, even if it fights against winter,
only loses its color, but forever exhales its fragrance.
Six
Then let not winter's jagged hand blot out
your summer, before you are unrefined:
Scent some bottles; and hide the treasure of your beauty
in the treasure-house, before it is dissipated.
Such a loan is not a forbidden taking of profit,
since it pleases that which gladly nets interest;
which is to say that thou shouldst have another thee for thee,
or, one begetting ten, be ten times as fortunate;
and ten times thyself be happier than thou art now:
if thou shouldst have ten sons to reappear unto thee:
So that, even if thou shouldst be long gone, what would death do to thee,
since thou continueest to live in thy seed?
Don't be capricious: if you are so marked, why should you be willing
to be the triumph of death, and let the maggots be the offspring.
Seven
Look, when the sun, who shines universally on all things, lifts his fiery head from the east
, the eyes of the lower world
all venerate the sight of his first rising, and
with their gaze they await his divine approach;
then he both ascends to the very summit of the vault of heaven
and, like the energetic and vigorous man of the prime of life, majestically, < /p>
The eyes of the nations still worshipped his loftiness,
and followed closely his swift golden drive.
But when he, like the dusty wheels of old age,
shuddered from the summit of the world and left the day,
the eyes of the people moved with one accord
from the prints of his sinking feet to the eyes of the people that had been obsequious to him.
Likewise, as soon as thy splendor fades in the midst of the day,
thou shalt die quietly, if there be no heir.
VIII
My music, why is it sad to hear it?
Sweetness is not mutually exclusive; joy makes joy laugh.
Why love that which thou art not glad to love,
Or why delight in thy troubles?
If the perfect harmony
and cordial concordance of pleasing voices annoy you,
they are but a euphemism for reproaching you that you should not
stifle that ensemble in your heart with a solo.
See how this one string, the good man of the other,
echoes and oscillates harmoniously with each other;
like a father, a son, and a happy mother,
they are united in a single song, and sing in unison.
Their wordless songs are all alike
Singing to you, "If you are celibate, everything is empty."
Nine
Is it for fear of wetting your widow's eyes
that you wear yourself out in celibate life?
Oh, if you are unfortunate enough to leave the earth without a queen,
the world shall mourn you like a widowed wife.
The world shall be thy widow, and she shall grieve for ever
that thou didst not leave her thy countenance in thy lifetime;
and the other widows, by the eyes of their children,
could, on the contrary, keep long in their hearts the likeness of a good man.
Behold, all the prodigal's waste in the world
has only changed masters, and the world is still enjoying itself;
but the consuming of beauty will have an end on earth:
to keep it unused is to leave it to decay.
Such a heart will never have love for others,
since it is so tolerant of killing and maiming itself.
10
Shame on you for denying that you do not love anyone,
and for treating yourself with such a lack of sensitivity.
Admit, as you will, that many are in love with you,
but say that you love no one, who must nod his head.
For the murderous spirit of resentment so haunts thee,
thou hast not spared many designs to kill and maim thyself,
sharply destroying thy lofty temple,
and thy only thought should be to re-cover it.
Oh, come back to me quickly, so that I too may change my mind!
Is hatred better than gentle love?
Thou art so fair, mayst thou be as kind,
or else at least as gentle to thyself.
Make another of thee, and if thou dost love me,
let beauty live forever in thy son or in thee.
One
As fast as thou wilt languish, thy son,
shall grow up in the world as fast;
this fresh blood which thou hast poured into youth
shall still be thine, when youth hath cast thee off.
In this lives wisdom, beauty, and prosperity;
without this, folly, old age, and decay:
Everyone thinks so, and then the clock will stop and the leaks will run out,
and sixty years will be enough to bring the world to naught.
Let those who have been born unworthy to bear children,
rude, ugly, and clumsy, die without a posterity;
The most favored of creation, and the most abundant of her gifts,
should cherish her generous gift as much as possible:
She engraved thee as her seal, and meant
that thou shouldst make more copies of thee, and not that thou shouldst destroy the original.
One or two
When I counted the chiming chimes on the wall,
and saw the bright day fall into the hideous night,
when I gazed at the violets old and springing,
and the curls of the green silk were sprinkled with snow;
when I saw the branches of the sky-scraping tree stripped of their foliage,
that not so very long ago it had shrouded the gasping cows and goats;
when I saw the trees of the sky, which had not so long ago been shaded with the shade of the sheep and cattle;
Summer's verdure is bound in bunches,
and lifted to the mortuary bed with firm white whiskers;
and so I cannot help but be anxious for your face:
There will come a day when you will join the waste heap of time,
and since beauty and felicity have forsaken you,
and you have watched the growth of others wither away,
nothing can withstand the poisonous hand of time. resists the poisonous hand of time,
except procreation, when he comes to detain you away.
13
Oh, would that thou wert thyself, but thou,
O love, art not thine at last, when thou shalt live no more:
To this day that is coming thou shalt prepare,
and give unto others thine handsome likeness quickly.
So that the vermilion face which thou hast leased shall never
have a full term; and so thou shalt become
thyself again, when thou hast departed from the earth,
since thy son retains thy silhouette.
Who would let a mansion of such splendor crumble,
if careful watchfulness could preserve
its luster against the blasts of winter
and the relentless fury of that cold death?
Oh, unless it be the Prodigal Son; I love, thou knowest
that thou hast a father; let thy son be proud.
I iv
Not from the stars do I gather my deductions;
But I thought I was well versed in astrology too,
but not for the purpose of reckoning the passages of the qi,
And the famines, and the pestilences, or the winds and colors of the four seasons;
Nor can I tell the fortunes of the short hours,
To point out the thunders, the thunder, and the winds and rains of every hour,
Oh, unless a prodigal son of thy son be proud.
Or to divine for the king whether the year is prosperous,
based on the heavenly knowledge which I have often detected from the heavens.
I get my magic only from your eyes,
The constant double stars, they foretell this good fortune:
If you come back to your heart and willing to save up to pass on,
Truth and beauty will be together with you for all eternity.
Or else it will be revealed about you:
The end of your life will be the death of truth and beauty.
1.5
When I perceive in silence that all the living creatures
keep their fragrance but for a moment,
and that the stage of the universe is but a play of tricks
drawn by the stars of the heavens in the nether world,
when I find that man multiplies like the grass and the trees,
and that the same heavens encourage and hinder him,
and that the same heavens encourage and hinder him,
and that the same heavens encourage and discourage him,
and that the same heaven encourages and hinders him in his youth.
The young and the strong flourish, and the flourishing is reversed,
Prosperity and splendor are wiped from memory;
And so all this moribund sign
Thee of thy wonderful age is presented before my eyes,
Seeing that cruel time conspires with decay,
The day of thy youth is turned into night;
For thy love I will contend with time:
I will contend with time:
I will contend with time:
I will contend with time:
I will contend with you for thy love. will contend with time:
He has broken you, I will re-branch you.
One-six
But why not use a more ferocious method
to resist this bloody fiend, Time?
Not strengthen yourself with weapons more auspicious than my withered pen,
to defend yourself against your decay?
Thou standest now on the summit of the golden hour,
And many a maiden's garden, not yet sown,
Chastely cutteth thou thy splendid swarms,
More coolly than thy portraits thou art true:
Only the threads of life can re-draw life;
Time's paint-brush, or my feeble pipe,
Neither inward beauty nor outward prettiness,
can make thee alive before men's eyes.
Offering yourself still retains you,
and you have to live, by your own wonderful pen.
One-seven
Who will believe in my poem in times to come,
If it is filled with your highest virtues?
Though, God knows, it's only a graveyard
Buried with your life and half of your true colors.
If I could write the flow of your beautiful eyes,
and count your showy beauty in fresh rhymes,
future ages would say, "This poet lies:
Where would such heavenly beauties fall on earth!"
So my book of poems, yellowed with age,
shall be scorned, like the rakish old man;
and your true face framed as a poet's madness,
and the exaggerated cadence of an ancient song:
But then if you have a son on earth,
you live twice: in him, in poetry.
One-eight
How can I compare thee to summer?
Thou art not only lovelier but gentler than it:
The winds have trampled on May's favored pistil,
and the summer's lease is too short:
The eye of heaven sometimes shines too keen,
and its shining gold is often veiled:
By chance or by inconstant heaven's ways,
no The splendor is not finally carved or destroyed.
But your long summer will never carve down,
nor lose your bright red fang,
or death boasts of your drifting in his shadow,
when you have grown with the time in immortal poetry.
As long as there is a human being, or a human being with eyes,
the poem will live on, and give you life.
19
The time of gluttony, which blunts the claws of the lion,
which bids the earth devour its favored young,
which goes to the jaws of the tiger and pulls out its teeth,
which burns the phoenix of longevity, and extinguishes its seed,
which makes the seasons mourn and rejoice in the passing of thee,
and which, as it were, wilfully destroys,
and which, as the time of the quick, is so much in the way of the life of man,
is so much a part of the life of man, that it gives thee life.
The world, and its fickle felicity;
Only this great crime I forbid thee to commit:
Oh, do not carve the years on my love's forehead,
Or scribble wrinkles with an old iron brush:
Do not defile it in thy passing,
That thou mayst leave it to posterity to be a fair example of beauty for all time to come.
But, rampant as it may be, old time, no matter how ruthless you are,
my love in my poems will last for ages.
Twenty
Thou hast a woman's face, molded by the hands of creation itself
Thou, mistress and mistress of my love;
a woman's gentle heart, but not
repeated and fickle, like a woman's false heart;
eyes brighter than hers, and less contrived,
flowing to gild all things in gold;
A superb beauty that rides over all beauty,
At once making men swoon and women shock.
The beginning was originally to create you as a woman:
But the creation molded you without realizing that it was enamored,
and mistakenly added a thing to you, which strips
me of my rights - a thing that means nothing to me.
But the creation made you both exclusively pleasant for women,
letting me possess, while they enjoy, your love.
21
My God of Poetry1 is not like that God of Poetry,
who only applies powder to his verses,
who brings down the heavens as an adornment,
who enumerates every beauty in praise of his beauty,
who makes couplets of pompous metaphors,
and who compares him with the sun, the moon, and the jewels of the land and the sea,
but who, in the name of the Lord of the Worlds, is not like that God of Poetry.
The flowers of April, and all the wonders that this vast universe
contains in its bosom.
Oh, let me both love truly, and sing truly,
And, believe me, my love rivals
any mother's son, though for brightness
not so much as the golden candlesticks that hang in the sky.
Who likes empty words, let him speak as much as he likes;
I am not for sale, and have no need of prayers.
Twenty-two
This mirror shall never make me believe that I am old,
as long as I am the same year with thee in the prime of my life;
but when the deep grooves of time appear in thy face,
I look for death to end my days.
For all that adorns your beauty
is but the surface luster of my heart;
My heart beats in your breast as you
in mine: how, then, can I fail before you?
O, my love, cherish yourself,
as I cherish myself, for your sake, not mine.
With your heart in my arms, I will be so solemn,
like a loving mother protecting her baby from disease.
Don't take a chance of surviving alone, if my heart breaks first;
It is not for the sake of taking it back that you give it to me.
Two or three
As if a playwright on the stage for the first time
had forgotten his part in the panic,
and as if the offended beast were full of rage,
its overpowering force had made it timid;
and likewise, lacking in calmness, I did not feel that I had forgotten
the Bingham feast in which the ceremonial rites of love are held,
and by which I have been made to suffer, and by which I have been made to suffer, and which has been made to suffer. /p>
overwhelmed by the excessive weight of my love,
and dying in a breath in my own love.
Oh, let my psalms be my apologists,
Silence my lingering heart for me,
It appeals for love, and begs for reward,
More than the cunning tongue that rambles to thee:
Learn, please, to read the love-letters of a reticent love,
And listen with your eyes to the marvellous arts of the love that originally belonged to it.
Two-four
My eyes pretend to be a painter, and I have traced your portrait
on the plate of my heart, and my flesh
is the frame in which your pretty face is embedded
And the painter's supreme magic is perspective.
Thou shalt see through the painter's artfulness
The place where thine face is treasured;
It hangs in the middle of the studio within my breast,
and thine eyes are the studio's glass windows.
This is the place where thou shalt see through the painter's artfulness.
Try to see how the eyes help the eyes:
My eyes paint your likeness, but yours is the window that
opens into my breast, from which the sun
likes to peep at you that is hidden within.
But the art of the eye owes a great deal to this:
It can only paint the outside, but it does not recognize the inside.
Two and a half
Let those men, who are blessed with good fortune,
go about boasting of their eminence and high rank,
but as for me, Fate has denied me this honor,
and only secretly and alone I enjoy the pleasures of my heart.
The favorites of princes spread their golden leaves
But like marigolds under the sun's favor,
Their pride is annihilated in themselves,
and a knitting of foreheads is enough to carve out their glory.
No matter how successful the famous generals in the battlefield are,
After winning a hundred battles, as long as there is a single failure,
then they will be erased from the list of merits,
and their lifelong achievements will only be silenced:
So, how happy I am to love and be loved again!
I will neither migrate nor fear expulsion.
Two-six
My love's supreme, thy virtues have
Strengthened this vassal of mine to thy embrace,
I now send thee this poem as an envoy,
To report to thee my duties, and not to show off my talents to thee.
The duty is so heavy, and I am so poor in talent and so few in words,
that I must inevitably appear naked to her,
but I hope that your wonderful mind will not think it too coarse,
and will cover its nakedness in your soul;
and so that, whatever star shines on my prospects,
show me a smile of concord,
and Add to my shabby love the garments of splendor,
and make me worthy of thy loving favor.
Then will I dare to boast of my love to thee,
or else I shall always hide for fear that thou wilt test me.
Twenty-seven
Exhausted, I hasten to my bed and lie down,
to rest my limbs which have labored all day long;
but at once my mind goes forth again in full array,
to labor my heart, when my body is at rest.
For my mind, without leaving my country,
Hastened devoutly to come to thee for incense,
Opened these sleepy eyes of mine,
Gazed toward the darkness that the blind can see;
But my soul, by its phantom eye,
Offered to my blinded eyes thy silhouette,
Like a jewel high in the gloomy night,
Turning the old ugly night into a bright day.
In this way, my legs in the day and my heart in the night,
for you and for myself, will not find peace.
Twenty-eight
How, then, can I return with joy,
since I cannot find a moment's rest for body and soul?
When the oppression of the day is not a little weakened into the night,
but the night follows the day, and the day follows the night?
The day and the night, which are usually at odds with each other,
have joined hands with each other to frustrate me in turn,
the one with trekking, the other with pouting,
saying that I am farther away from thee than I am from thee, though trekking all the day long.
To please the day, I tell it that thou art the light,
and that thou wilt reflect it in the cloudy hours.
And this I say to please the night:
When the stars do not blink, you will shine for them.
But every day the day lengthens my pain,
and every night the darkness of the night turns my thoughts to evil.
Twenty-nine
While I am suffering from the fate and the eyes of the people,
I am secretly mourning my birth,
I am disturbing the deaf HaoTian with my appeals,
I am looking forward to my figure and cursing my birth,
May I be as hopeful as the other one,
Like in appearance, and as social as he is,
I wish I were as rich in hope as the other one.
Hoping for this man's knowledge, and that man's knowledge,
The most delightful pleasures feel most wrong;
But when I was about to despise myself in this way,
Suddenly I remembered thee, and my spirit,
Like a lark breaking out of the cloudy earth
Rising up with its quills, and singing its hymns at the gates of heaven:
The thought of thy love has made me a man of love,
The thought of thy love has made me a man of love. >Once I remember that thy love has made me so rich,
And with emperors for places I would not care to stoop.
Thirty
When I summon the memory of things that have passed
To appear in the public court of that sweet-smelling meditation,
I cannot help sighing for the many defects of life,
And weeping anew for wasted time with old hatreds;
And so I may drown the withered eyes,
For the sake of those kinsmen and friends who have long been buried in the night-table,<
Mourning the beauty of the many voices,
Weeping the grief of the love that has long been evaporated:
So I was despondent for the despondency of the past,
And counted them one by one, from pain to pain,
The many whimpering old scores,
as if they had not yet been paid, and are now coming to be paid again.
But as long as I think of you, my dear friend, at that moment,
the loss is all recovered, and the sorrow is reduced to nothing.
Trinity
Your bosom is dearer with those hearts
(whose fading I only knew to be dead);
so love, and all the lovelier parts of love,
and buried friendships are hid in your bosom.
How many holy teardrops for mourning
that pious love had stolen from my eyes
to propitiate the dead! It dawns on me now
They only left me to dwell in your heart.
You are a mound of past favors,
full of memorial plaques of dead lovers,
who paid you all my gifts,
and you alone enjoy the love that so many have deserved.
In thee I have glimpsed their silhouettes,
and thou, the sum of them, hast all my heart.
Thirty-two
If you live beyond my hesitation,
when my humble "death" buries me in the yellow earth,
and I happen to revisit this poor, poor volume of poems,
which was written in your lover's life in your honor,
comparing it with the new poems of the modern age,
and the new poems of the modern times,
and the new poems of the new generation,
and the new poems of the new generation,
and the new poems of the new generation. Compare it with the handsome new poems of the present day,
and find it inferior in every point of its diction,
please keep it for my love alone, and not
for that rhyme which has been overridden by a fortunate genius.
Oh, then give me this thought of love:
"Had my friend's poetical god grown with the times,
his love would have brought forth a more beautiful spawn,
that would have stooped to the same level with any of the masterpieces of the century:
but as he is dead, and poets are all marching on,
I read their literary skill,
but I read his heart. but read his heart."