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Å leve sammen var som å leve
med en eneste skygge på deling
Ingen av dem ville helt gi seg hen
og ingen slippe taket

For sent forstod hun
at hun hadde hatt råd til å gi ham
den kjærligheten
som han aldri torde gi henne

Og for sent forstod han
at han skulle ha vært for henne
den kjærligheten
som han selv aldri ville fått

if i have made,my lady,intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes(frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind-if i have failed to snare
the glance too shy-if through my singing slips
the very skillful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

but if a living dance upon dead minds
why,it is love;but at the earliest spear
of sun perfectly should disappear
moon's utmost magic,or stones speak or one
name control more incredible splendor than
our merely universe, love's also there:
and being here imprisoned,tortured here
love everywhere exploding maims and blinds
(but surely does not forget,perish, sleep
cannot be photographed,measured;disdains
the trivial labelling of punctual brains...
-Who wields a poem huger than the grave?
from only Whom shall time no refuge keep
though all the weird worlds must be opened?

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two;
And this, alas! is more than we would do.

What remains in me, is to be known even as I know.
I know her now: or perhaps, I know my own limitation against her.

Plunging as I have ever done, over, over the brink
I have dropped at last headlong into nought,
plunging upon sheer hard extinction;
I have come, as it were, not to know,
died, as it were; ceased from knowing; surpassing myself.
What can I say more, except that I know what it is
to surpass myself?

Bar du ikke ennå i deg en oppspilt forventning, at hver ting kom til deg med bud om en du har kjær?

Wie sollte/ er es nicht lieben, da es ihm lächelte.

We've made a great mess of love
Since we made an ideal of it.

Ah, through the open door

Is there an almond tree

Aflame with blossom!

--Let us fight no more.

Among the pink and blue

Of the sky and the almond flowers

A sparrow flutters.

--We have come through,

It is really spring!--See,

When he thinks himself alone

How he bullies the flowers.

--Ah, you and me

How happy we'll be!--See him

He clouts the tufts of flowers

In his impudence.

--But, did you dream

It would be so bitter? Never mind

It is finished, the spring is here.

And we're going to be summer-happy

And summer-kind.

We have died, we have slain and been slain,

We are not our old selves any more.

I feel new and eager

To start again.

It is gorgeous to live and forget.

And to feel quite new.

See the bird in the flowers?--he's making

A rare to-do!

He thinks the whole blue sky

Is much less than the bit of blue egg

He's got in his nest--we'll be happy

You and I, I and you.

With nothing to fight any more--

In each other, at least.

See, how gorgeous the world is

Outside the door!

To-night is a woman born/ Of the man in me

"Those who suffer from the superabundance of life" make suffering an affirmation in the same way as they make intoxication an activity; in the laceration of Dionysus they recognise the extreme form of affirmation, with no possibility of subtraction, exception or choice. "Those who suffer, on the contrary, from an impoverishment of life" make intoxication a convulsion, a numbness; they make suffering a means of accusing life, of contradicting it and also a means of justifying life, of resolving the contradiction. All this in fact goes into the idea of a saviour; there is no more beautiful saviour than the one who would be simultaneously executioner, victim and comforter, the Holy Trinity, the wonderful dream of bad conscience. From the point of view of a saviour, "life must be the path which leads to sainthood". From the point of view of Dionysius, "existence seems holy enough by itself to justify a further immensity of suffering".

I walk in fear of you.
The darkness starts up where
You stand, and the night comes through
Your eyes when you look at me.

I would bear the pain.
But always, strong, unremitting
It would make me not me.
The thing with my body that would go on living
Would not be me.
Neither life nor death could help.

Except for you alone I see nothing in this terrestrial abode worthy to occupy my soul and my senses; no, without you nature is nothing to me: but her empire is in your eyes, and that is where she is invincible.

Oh how much more lovable you were when you were less lovely!

How I deceived myself, Mademoiselle, in my first Letter! Instead of relieving my afflictions, I have only increased them by exposing myself to your disfavor, and I feel that the worst of them all is to displease you. Your silence, your cold and reserved manner only too clearly proclaim my rejection.