O sky and earth, and you, furious seas, O fields and meadows adorned with blooms and trees, In short, all things in this great universe, Praise him, the one whom I love—
He who defeated inglorious Death, Destroyed sin, and toppled Satan, Who died through so many martyrs, To grant me most fortunate redemption.
O such a singular and perfect reward From this great God who fashioned me so well, And who will make me as I wish it!
Would I not be incredibly ungrateful, If I didn’t treasure him above all others— Such a lover, a master, and father?
When I come to the stream in Mount Turyu whose beauty I have long since heard of, I see the mountains mirrored in the waters dotted with floating peach blossoms. Where is the fairyland, my boy? This alone is the place.
We present this work in honor of the 415th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Edmund Spenser English 1552 – 1599
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
“Vain man,” said she, “that dost in vain assay, A mortal thing so to immortalize; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise.”
“Not so,” (quod I) “let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.”
We present this work in honor of the 405th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Heo Gyun Korean 1569 – 1618
As the sun is about to set, An old woman is wailing in the ruins of a village. Her disheveled hair looks as if blighted by frost, And her eyes are shadowed as if by dusk. Her husband is in a cold jail cell, Because he cannot pay off the money he owes, And her son has gone off with the royal army. Her house has been burned down to the base of the pillars; Hiding out in the woods she has lost even her hemp petticoat. She has no work, she has no wish even to go on living, Why is the petty clerk of the district calling for her at the gate?
We present this work in honor of the 445th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Francisco de Aldana Spanish 1537 – 1578
A thousand times I say, in Galatea’s arms, that she’s more lovely than the sun; then she, with a sweet look, disdainfully, tells me, “My Tyrsis, do not tell me that.”
I try to swear it, and she, suddenly, her face now blazing with a rosy hue restrains me with a kiss and hastily my words with her own lips seeks to combat.
I struggle with her mildly to break free, and she holds me more tightly and then says, “Don’t swear, my love, I know it’s not a lie.”
With this she so completely shackles me that Love, a witness to our gentle play, causes with deeds my hope to satisfy.
Surely she does not lack beauty Nor skills in sewing and weaving. But she grew up in a poor family So good matchmakers ignore her.
She never looks cold or hungry, All day long she weaves by her window. Only her parents feel sorry for her; Neighbors would never know of it.
A pair of golden scissors in her hand, Fingers stiffened by the night’s chill. She cuts a bridal costume for another, Yet year after year she sleeps alone.
We present this work in honor of the 490th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Ludovico Ariosto Italian 1474 – 1533
Upon two beauteous images below Each of these female statues fix their feet. The lower seem with open mouth to show That song and harmony to them are sweet; And, by their attitude, ’twould seem, as though Their every work and every study meet In praising them, they on their shoulders bear, As they would those whose likenesses they wear.
The images below them in their hand Long scrolls and of an ample size contain, Which of the worthiest figures of that band The several names with mickle praise explain As well their own at little distance stand, Inscribed upon that scroll, in letters plain, Rinaldo, by the help of blazing lights, Marked, one by one, the ladies and their knights.
The first inscription there which meets the eye Recites at length Lucretia Borgia’s fame, Whom Rome should place, for charms and chastity, Above that wife who whilom bore her name. Strozza and Tebaldeo—Anthony And Hercules—support the honoured dame: (So says the scroll): for tuneful strain, the pair A very Linus and an Orpheus are.
A statue no less jocund, no less bright, Succeeds, and on the writing is impressed; Lo! Hercules’ daughter, Isabella hight, In whom Ferrara deems her city blest, Much more because she first shall see the light Within its circuit, than for all the rest Which kind and favouring Fortune in the flow Of rolling years, shall on that town bestow.
The pair that such desirous ardour shew That aye her praises should be widely blown: John James alike are named: of those fair two, One is Calandra, one is Bardelon. In the third place, and fourth, where trickling through Small rills, the water quits that octagon, Two ladies are there, equal in their birth, Equal in country, honour, charms and worth.
Green water, do not boast of your rapid flow from the blue mountains. It is hard to return when you’ve reached the blue sea. A full moon graces these peaceful hills: Won’t you rest a while?
The sun, upon a cliff its bright rays beaming, Trickles the melting snow; and so my lot As well: I too melt when I feel the hot Gentleness of your flame upon me gleaming.
My weeping eye becomes a brooklet, streaming; And my soul, vanquishing my flesh, vows not Again to bend itswill—nay, not one jot— To seek out vice or be full wayward-seeming.
But let your fire desist, leaving me lost, And cold my heart grows, frozen more than frost Of frigid winter’s day, white as the snows.
Dear Lord, I pray you not abandon me! Return, else eath must be my destiny: I live but by that gift your grace bestows.
Poets Corner 