Young Love

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
                   Reply, reply.

It is engender'd in the eyes;
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies:
Let us all ring Fancy's knell;
I'll begin it, --Ding, dong, bell.
                 --Ding, dong, bell.

Dirge of Love

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

  Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypres let me be laid;
  Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
                  O prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
                 Did share it.

  Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;
  Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
                   Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
                   To weep there.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

  Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
  Thou art not so unkind
  As man's ingratitude
  Thy tooth is not so keen
  Because thou art not see,
  Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
  Then, heigh ho! the holly!
  This life is most jolly.

  Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
  Thou dost not bite so nigh
  As benefits forgot:
  Though thou the water warp,
  Thy sting is not so sharp
  As friend remember'd not.
Heigh ho! hiegh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
  Then, heigh ho! the holly!
  This life is most jolly.

Carpe Diem

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
  That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers meeting--
  Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
  What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,--
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
  Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Love's Perjuries

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee:
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

Under The Greenwood Tree

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

  Under the greenwood tree
  Who loves to lie with me,
  And turn his merry note
  Unto the sweet bird's throat --
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
  Here shall he see
  No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

  Who doth ambition shun
  And loves to live i'the sun,
  Seeking the food he eats
  And pleased with what he gets --
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
  Here shall he see
  No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

The World's Way

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry --
  As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
  And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
  And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
  And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,
  And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
  And captive Good attending captain Ill:--

-- Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.

The Life Without Passion

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
  That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as store,
  Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow, --

They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
  And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
  Others, but stewards of their excellence.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
  Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
  The basest weed outbraves his dignity:

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

True Love

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.  Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:--

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But  bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:--

If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

To His Love

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

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 thous owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:--

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Rosaline

By Thomas Lodge (1567 ~ 1601)


Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
Whether unfolded, or in twines:
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink;
The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think
 Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity:
 Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:
 Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The Gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
 Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there's fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
 Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

That time of year thou may'st in me behold

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)
That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:

In me thous see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-an-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest:

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by:

-- This thous perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Revolutions

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:---

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Since Brass, Nor stone

By William Shakespeare (1546 ~ 1616)
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack!
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O! none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Cupid and Campaspe

By John Lyly (1554 ~ 1606)
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win:
And last he set her both his eyes-
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
  O Love! has she done this to thee?
  What shall, alas! become of me?

꽃 두고(On flower)

By 최남선 (1890 ~ 1957)
나는 꽃을 즐겨 맞노라.
그러나 그의 아리따운 태도를 보고 눈이 어리어,
그의 향기로운 냄새를 맡고 코가 반하여,
정신 없이 그를 즐겨 맞음 아니라
다만 칼날 같은 북풍을 더운 기운으로써
인정없는 살기를 깊은 사랑으로써
대신하여 바꾸어
뼈가 저린 이름 밑데 눌리고 피도 얼릴 눈구덩에 파묻혀 있던
억만 목숨을 건지고 집어 내어 다시 살리는
봄바람을 표장(表章)함으로
나는 그를 즐겨 맞노라.

나는 꽃을 즐겨 보노라.
그러나 그의 평화 기운 머금은 웃는 얼굴 홀리어
그의 부귀 기상 나타낸 성한 모양 탐하여
주착 없이 그를 즐겨 봄이 아니라
다만 겉모양의 고운 것 매양 실상이 적고
처음 서슬 장한 것 대개 뒤끝 없는 중 오직 혼자 특별히
약한 영화 구안(苟安)치도 아니고, 허다 마장(魔障)겪으면서도 굽히지 않고
다만 목슴을 만들고 늘어 내어 깊이 전할 바
씨 열매를 보유한을
나는 그를 즐겨 보노라.


I welcome blossoming flower.
Not for her charming mien,
Not for her sweet smell,
That I forget the troubles of the world.
But for the fact that it brings warm air instead of stinging northern wind
And that fills heart of deep love instead of  unkindness.
For the fact that its blossoming signifies of the coming of Spring,
A season that raises those hundred millions,
who have been buried under cruel snow out of the ground.
For this. I welcome her with open heart.

I gaze at blossoming flower.
Not for her seductive face with peaceful smile,
Not for her tempting look promising prosperity,
That I forget my conviction.
Though it has no real use other than its beauty,
she doesn't seek for temporary comfort, nor does she yield to dangerous obstacles.
And she procreates and multiplies new life and spread them afar
Through the seeds and fruits stored within her.
For this, I gaze at her with all my heart.

One day I wrote her name upon the stand...

By Edmund Spenser(1553~1599)
One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
but came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

Vain man, said she, that does in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize,
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise.

Not so, (quod I) let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name.
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.

엄마야 누나야

By 김소월

Mom and sister, let us live by the river.
By the yard are the shining golden sands.
By the back door, oak leaf sings.
Mom and sister, let us live by the river.

엄마야 누나야 강변 살자.
뜰에는 반짝이는 금모래 빛.
뒷문 밖에는 갈잎의 노래.
엄마야 누나야 강변 살자.
My Reading:

Music by 안성현 played on 단소:

It is most true...

By Sir Philip Sydney (1554~1586)
It is most true that eyes are form’d to serve
The inward light and that the heavenly part
Ought to be King, from whose rules who do swerve,
Rebels to nature, strive for their own smart.

It is most true, that what we call Cupid’s dart
An image is, which for ourselves we carve,
And, fools, adore, in temple of our heart,
Till that good god make church and churchmen
starve.

True, that true beauty virtue is indeed,
Whereof this beauty can be but a shade,
Which elements with mortal mixture breed.
True that on earth we are but pilgrims made,

And should in soul up to our country move:
True, and yet true that I must Stella love.

Loving in truth...

By Sir Philip Sydney (1554~1586)
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of
  my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make
  her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned
  brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's
  stay;

Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's
  blows,
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my
  way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my
  throes,

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
'Fool,' said my Muse to me, 'look in thy heart and
  write.'