Not a word will I utter
of what I keep muttering to myself –
not for anything in the world.
Night flowers sleep all summer’s day
but leaves wake as sun sets behind a corpse –
and my heart starts to blossom.
And into my tired breast wafts a moist
breath of evening. Something flutters, is stirred.
But no, not a word.
by Афанасий Афанасьевич Фет (Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet)
a.k.a. Шеншин (Shenshin)
translated by Robert Chandler
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 ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
by William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)