Sonnet

Beautiful nymphs who through the river pass,
living in contentment on your own
in your mansions built of shimmering stone
and upheld by columns made of glass:
now, one embroiders lovely trifles as
another weaves a cloth of delicate tone;
and now, a few of you go off alone,
each telling of the life and loves she has;
for a while, put your work aside
and lift your golden heads to look at me,
and I won't keep you long, I confide;
you'll be too sad to listen, or I'll be
changed to water crying at your side,
and then there will be time for sympathy.

Garcilaso de la Vega (1503-1536)
(©Mary Rae, 2002).


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2012 Selected Poetry
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