Сонеты

When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail                    my dear time’s waste:Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid                    in death’s dateless night,And weep afresh love’s long                       since cancell’d woe,And moan the expense of many

                          a vanish’d sight:Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o’erThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,Which I new pay as if not paid before.But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,All losses are restored and sorrows end.

33. «Full many a glorious morning have I seen…»

Full many a glorious morning have I seenFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;Anon permit the basest clouds to rideWith ugly rack on his celestial face,And from the forlorn world his visage hide,Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:Even so my sun one early morn did shineWith all triumphant splendor on my brow;But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;The region cloud hath mask’d him                                    from me now.Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

Suns of the world may stain                    when heaven’s sun staineth.

40. «Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all…»

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;What hast thou then more                    than thou hadst before?No love, my love, that thou mayst                    true love call;All mine was thine before                    thou hadst this more.Then if for my love thou my love receivest,

I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivestBy wilful taste of what thyself refusest.I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,Although thou steal thee all my poverty;And yet, love knows, it is a greater griefTo bear love’s wrong                    than hate’s known injury.Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

42. «That thou hast her, it is not all my grief…»