Thursday, February 28, 2013

William Shakespeare - Sonnet LVII: Being your slave, what should I do but tend


Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you.
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought,
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

Roberto Benigni - La marcia degli incazzati

Monday, February 25, 2013

Henri Barbusse (1873-1935) - The Sempstress



On the rain a glint of day ...
The blue and yellow sun
Pours on the suburbs one
Beam through the shower's gray.

In the workshop stingy of light
Sewing she sits in the gloom,
But she feels, beyond the room,
The rainbow growing bright.

And when it shines without limit
On the houses dazzled by
The rain's sweet rays, a shy
Song she hums to hymn it,

Chanting Time's vast expanse,
The Future vague and bland ...
Her eyes smile on her hand,
She believes in her romance.

And in beauty that amazes,
And peace for the human race,
She feels herself beyond space,
Her lips to the light she raises.

Workshop whistles are blown.
Home, with the evening's crape
Around her wistful shape,
Singing she goes to her own.

Threading by carriage and cart
The listless wayfarers loud,
She is alone in the crowd,
Because of the song in her heart.

Full of impossible things,
Home to her simple repast,
Wildered with eyes downcast,
While the music hid in her sings.