Diógenes de Sinope.

 

   The woman of the man is the best,

and madness to say that the worst,
his life is usually and his gift,
his death is usually and his poison.

Heaven in the eyes candid and serene,
that many times to hell I equal,
for rare to the world its value I point out
For false to man his rigor I condemn.

She gives us her blood, she breeds us,
Heaven has not done a more ungrateful thing;
she is an angel, and sometimes a harpy.

He loves, he hates, he treats well, he mistreats,
and it is the woman, in the end, like bleeding,
that sometimes gives health and sometimes kills.

Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care
Thou did'st seek after me, that Thou did'st wait
Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
Oh, strange delusion, that I did not greet
Thy blest approach, and oh, to heaven how lost
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet.
How oft my guardian angel gently cried,
"Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see
How He persists to knock and wait for thee!"
And oh, how often to that Voice of sorrow,
"Tomorrow we will open," I replied,
And when the morrow came I answered still "Tomorrow."

This afternoon, my love, speaking to you
since I could see that in your face and walk
I failed in coming close to you with talk,
I wanted you to see my heart. Love, who
supported me in what I longed to do,
conquered the impossible to attain.
Amid my tears that were poured out by pain,
my heart became distilled, was broken through.
Enough, my love. Don't be so stiff. Don't let
maddening jealousies and arrogance
haunt you or let your quiet be upset
by foolish shadows: false signs of a man's
presence; for now you see my heart which met
your touch -- and so is shattered in your hands.