The Chambered Nautilus
by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
               Sailed the unshadowed main,—
               The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
               And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
               Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
               And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
               Before thee lies revealed,—
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil
               That spread his lustrous coil;
               Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
               Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
               Child of the wandering sea,
               Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!
               While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
               As the swift seasons roll!
               Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
               Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

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Deidad
by Amado Nervo (1870-1919)

Como duerme la chispa en el guijarro
y la estatua en el barro,
en ti duerme la divinidad.
Tan sólo en un dolor constante y fuerte
al choque, brota de la piedra inerte
el relámpago de la deidad.
No te quejes, por tanto, del destino,
pues lo que en tu interior hay de divino
sólo surge merced a él.
Soporta, si es posible, sonriendo,
la vida que el artista va esculpiendo,
el duro choque del cincel.

Qué importan para ti las horas malas,
si cada hora en tus nacientes alas
pone una pluma bella más?
Ya verás al cóndor en plena altura,
ya verás concluida la escultura,
ya verás, alma, ya verás…

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The Sweets of Evening
by Christopher Smart (1722-1771)

The sweets of Evening charm the mind,
      Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more’s confin’d,
But exercise with freedom join’d,
      When Phoebus sheathes his ray.

The softer scenes of nature sooth
      The organs of our sight;
The Zephyrs fan the meadows smooth,
And on the brook we build the booth
      In pastoral delight.

While all-serene the summer moon
      Sends glances thro’ the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,
Asteria too shall help her soon
      With voice of skilful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,
      And music, every sound
To lull the sun to his repose;
The skies are coloured like the rose
      With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by Time
      None half so sweet appear,
As those when thoughts themselves sublime,
And with superior natures chime
      In fancy’s highest sphere.

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