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Let them die with you, Laura, now you are dead,
these longings that go out to you in vain, these eyes on whom you once bestowed a lovely light never to gleam again. Let this unfortunate lyre that echoes still to sounds you woke, perish calling your name, and may these clumsy scribblings represent black tears my pen has shed to ease its pain. Let Death himself feel pity, and regret that, bound by his own law, he could not spare you, and Love lament the bitter circumstance that if once, in his desire for pleasure, he wished for eyes that they might feast on you, now weeping is all those eyes could ever do. Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz (1648 - 1695) |
 If you have any suggestions or questions regarding these poems please email me |
