Poems
Giving My Daughter Away to the Yang Family
I was sorrowful all day.
Even when I took a walk outdoors,
My sadness remained.
You are going to travel a long distance to be married.
Your light boat will go up a mighty river.
Unfortunately, you and your sister are motherless.
As I recall the past,
I wish I could have loved you more.
You have had to raise your sister.
When you parted,
You both cried endlessly.
When I saw you cry I was heartbroken.
However, for your happiness I cannot ask you to stay.
You have lacked a mother’s guidance since you were little,
So I worry whether you can serve your mother-in-law properly.
Fortunately, you are entrusted to a kind family.
I hope that your mother-in-law will treat you well
And not find fault with you.
Frugality should be promoted,
So why do you need a rich dowry?
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poem by Wei Yingwu
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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poem by Dylan Thomas
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Sonnet 151
Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove;
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason.
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love—flesh stays no father reason,
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize—proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her "love" for whose dear love I rise and fall.
poem by William Shakespeare from Sonnets (1609)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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