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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2006-03-14 | [Este texto, tienes que leerlo en romana] | Inscrito en la biblioteca por Ionescu Bogdan
It is not you, no, madam, whom I love,
Nor you either, Juliet, nor you, Ophelia, nor Beatrice, nor that dove, Fair-haired Laura with the big eyes; No. She is in China whom I love just now; She lives at home and cares for her old parents; From a tower of porcelain she leans her brow, By the Yellow River, where haunt the cormorants. She has upward-slanting eyes, a foot to hold In your hand-- that small; the colour shed By lamps is less clear than her coppery gold; And her long nails are stained with carmine red. >From her trellis she leans out so far That the dipping swallows are within her reach, And like a poet, to the evening star She sings the willow and the flowering peach. (translated by A. J. M. Smith)
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