At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon.
Ebben? Ne andrò lontana,
Come va l’eco della pia campana,
Là, fra le nubi d’ôr;
Laddóve la speranza, la speranza
È rimpianto, è rimpianto, è dolor!
Well? I will go far away,
As far as the echo of the church bell,
There, through the white snow,
There, through the golden clouds,
There, where hope is regret and pain.
She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
Voy a curarte el alma en duelo
Voy a dejarte como nuevo
Y todo va a pasar
Pronto verás el sol brillar
Tú más que nadie merecer ser feliz
Ya vas a ver como van sanando
Poco a poco tus heridas
Ya vas a ver como va
La misma vida a decantar la sal que sobra del mar
you could live in that landscape of sound
quiet nights of quiet stars
calibrating the hours in diamonds and rust
and a bridge to take [you] over
“When on the Marge of Evening”
By Louise Imogen Guiney
WHEN on the marge of evening the last blue light is broken,
And winds of dreamy odor are loosened from afar,
Or when my lattice opens, before the lark hath spoken,
On dim laburnum-blossoms, and morning’s dying star,
I think of thee (oh mine the more if other eyes be sleeping!)
Whose greater noonday splendors the many share and see,
While sacred and forever, some perfect law is keeping
The late, the early twilight, alone and sweet for me.
I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.