18 mart.
„Sonet LXXXVI” de William Shakespeare
| Was it the proud full sail of his great verse Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? |
Semeţ întinde vela poeziei cel ce de preţul tău este legat, cum gândului închis în creier fie-i mormânt, matricea care l-a-nălţat. |
| Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he nor his compeers by night Giving him aid my verse astonished |
Ce spirite pe creste i-au dus firea încât lovit de moarte-n faţă-i sunt? Nici el, nici fraţii lui de nicăierea n-or să-mi uimească versul care-l cânt. |
| He nor that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors, of my silence cannot boast; I was no sick of any fear from thence. |
Nici el, nici nobilele lui vedenii care-i înşeală ochii-n asfinţit n-or să-mi învingă linişti şi muţenii, nicicând de teama lor n-am suferit. |
| But when your countenance filled up his line, Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine. |
Când versu-i umpli lui, cu inspirare, al meu rămâne fără de suflare. |
| William Shakespeare | traducere de Gheorghe Tomozei |