To my beloved

SONNET 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
    Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
    Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
    That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
    Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
    Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
    But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

~ William Shakespeare

MÅNGA RÔSTER TALAR
- Karin boye

Många röster talar.
Din är som vatten.
Din är som regn,
när det faller genom natten.
Sorlar lågt
sjunker trevande,
långsam, tveksam,
kvalfullt levande.

Skälver som en grund
bakom alla ljud,
sipprar och silar
mot min hud,
sveper sig lent,
sluter mig inne,
fyller mina öron
med viskande minne.

Jag vill sitta tyst
där jag inte kan störa dig.
Jag vill bo och leva
där jag kan höra dig.
Många röster talar.
Genom dem alla
hör jag bara din
som ett nattregn falla.

 He walks in beauty like the night

He walks in beauty, like the night   
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,   
And all that's best of dark and bright   
Meets in his aspect and his eyes;   
Thus mellow'd to that tender light            
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.   
 
One shade the more, one ray the less,   
Had half impair'd the nameless grace   
Which waves in every raven tress   
Or softly lightens o'er his face,     
Where thoughts serenely sweet express   
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.   
 
And on that cheek and o'er that brow   
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,   
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,     
But tell of days in goodness spent,—   
A mind at peace with all below,   
A heart whose love is innocent.