Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?


Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

and summer’s lease hath all too short a date;

sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

and often is his gold complexion dimm’d;

and every fair from fair sometime declines,

by chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

nor shall death brag thou wander’s in his shade,

when in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

so long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare. England (1564-1616)

Angel of Patience


To weary hearts, to mourning homes,

God’s meekest Angel gently comes.

No power has he to banish pain

or give us back our lost again.

And yet in tenderest love, our dear

and heavenly Father sends him here.

There’s quiet in that Angel glance,

there’s rest in his still countenance!

He mocks no grief with idle cheer,

nor wounds with words the mourner’s ear;

but ills and woes he may not cure

he kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience!

sent to calm

our feverish brows with cooling palm,

to lay the storms of hope and fear,

and reconcile life’s smile and tear,

the throbs of wounded pride to still

and make our own our Fathers will.

O thou who mourns on thy way,

with longings for the close of day.

He walks with thee, that Angel kind,

and gently whispers, “be resigned

bear up, bear on, the end shall tell

the dear Lord ordereth all things well!”

John Greenleaf Whittier. USA (1807-1892)

Se equivocó la paloma


Se equivocó la paloma.

Se equivocaba.

Por ir al Norte, fue al Sur.

Creyó que el trigo era agua.

Se equivocaba.

Que las estrellas, rocío;

que la calor, la nevada.

Se equivocaba.

Que tu falda era tu blusa;

que tu corazón, su casa.

Se equivocaba.

Ella se durmió en la orilla.

Tú, en la cumbre de una rama.

Rafael Alberti. (España, 1902-1999)

Trinity Sunday


Lord, who hast formed me out of mud,

and hast redeemed me trough thy blood,

and sanctified me to do good.

Purge all my sins donde heretofore:

for I confess my heavy score,

and I will strive to sin no more.

Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me,

with faith, with hope with charity;

that I may run, rise, rest with thee.

George Herbert. England (1593-1633)

A poetic prayer


Father, who givest us now the new year,
grant that Thy mercy may with it appear;
lead us the path along which we must go;
choose Thou our portion of pleasure or woe.

Father, Thy blessing give brightening each day;
be Thou our comforter, hear when we pray.
Let us not go alone out in the wild;
let Thy forgiving love shelter each child.

Whate’er our work shall be let us have light;
what our hands find to do doing with might;
faithfully serving Thee while it is day,
so be the happy year passing away.

Father, Thy wisdom give, let us be strong;
keep us from grieving Thee doing the wrong.
Oh, let us hear Thy voice calling us near,
oh, let us see the way clearly appear.

Father, we cannot see what is before,
yet we would sing our song trusting Thee more;
burdens we have and griefs bitter to bear.
But Thou wilt quiet us, thou who dost care.

So we will meet the months leaning on Thee,
loving and mighty One, still near us be;
help us to forward go strong in Thy fear;
Father, abide with us all through the year.

If it should be the last, happy are we!
We in the heavenly home with Thee shall be.
Guide our feet thither, and bless Thou us still—
Father, with us and ours do Thine own will.

Marianne Farningham. England (1834-1909)

Versainograma a Santo Domingo



Perdonen si les digo unas locuras

en esta dulce tarde de febrero,

y si se va mi corazón cantando

hacia Santo Domingo, compañeros.

Vamos a recordar lo que ha pasado allí,

desde que Don Cristóbal, el marinero,

puso los pies y descubrió la isla,

¡ay, mejor no la hubiera descubierto!

porque ha sufrido tanto desde entonces,

que parece que el diablo, y no Jesús,

se entendió con Colón en ese aspecto.

Esos conquistadores españoles,

que llegaron desde España, por supuesto,

buscaban oro y lo buscaron tanto

como si les sirviese de alimento.

Enarbolando a Cristo con su cruz,

los garrotazos fueron argumentos

tan poderosos, que los indios vivos

se convirtieron en cristianos muertos.

Aunque hace siglos de esta historia amarga,

por amarga y por vieja se las cuento,

porque las cosas no se aclaran nunca,

con el olvido ni el silencio.

Y hay tanta inquietud sin comentario,

en la América hirsuta que me dieron,

que si hasta los poetas nos callamos,

no hablan los otros porque tienen miedo.

Ya se sabe, en un día declaramos

la independencia azul de nuestros pueblos,

una por una, América Latina,

se desgranó como un racimo negro,

de nacionalidades diminutas,

con mucha facha y poco dinero.

(Andamos con orgullo y sin zapatos,

y nos creemos todos caballeros).

Pablo Neruda. Chile (1904-1973)

We pray for those who do not pray

We pray for those who do not pray!
Who waste away salvation’s day;
For those we love who love not Thee—
Our grief, their danger, pitying see
Those for whom many tears are shed
And blessings breathed upon their head,
The children of thy people save
From godless life and hopeless grave.
Hear fathers, mothers, as they pray
For sons, for daughters, far away—
Brother for brother, friend for friend—
Hear all our prayers that upward blend.
We pray for those who long have heard
But still neglect Thy gracious Word;
Soften the hearts obdurate made
By calls unheeded; vows delayed.
Release the drunkard from his chain,
Bare those beguiled by pleasure vain,
Set free the slaves of lust, and bring
Back to their home the wandering.
The hopeless cheer; guide those who doubt;
Restore the lost; cast no one out;
For all that are far off we pray,
Since we were once far off as they.

Christopher Newman Hall. England (1806-1902)

Alma llanera


Yo nací en esta ribera del Arauca vibrador.

Soy hermano de la espuma,

de las garzas y las rosas,

y del sol.

Me arrulló la viva diana de la brisa en el palmar,

y por eso tengo el alma

como el alma primorosa

del cristal.

Amo, lloro, canto, sueño,

con claveles de pasión.

Y adoro rubia crines

del potro que quiero yo.

Rafael Bolívar Coronado. Venezuela (1884-1924)

Pedro Elías Gutiérrez. Venezuela (1870-1954)