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Antonio Machado Country

nicolas poussin

the evening's dying

as a humble fire goes out.

There, the mountains, there remains

a bit 'of fire. And the '

broken mast in the white path

cry of pain.

Two wounded in the trunk branches, and a

black and withered leaf in every branch!

Cry? ... In the thick grove of golden

away - a shadow - love is waiting for you.

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Shelley, a poem Venetian

'says with the grin of hatred as was horrible to accept my love when your mad, you'll be amazed that I had never been able to turn these features on the occasion of love ... this rebuke, even if true (which in fact nature has not given me his most choice either in form or in color) will not be your defense ... that since he kissed your lips my first time, many years ago, when your eyes kindled a fire to my sweet, are not revoked nor changed in the mind or body, or nothing if not a love that does not like changes after many years and many trials'.



Shelley, a poem Venetian

Toulouse Lautrec

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's smile

There is a smile of love,

And there's a smile seduction,

A smile is the smile

Where those two smiles meet.

There is a frowning hatred,

And there is a frown of disdain,

And there is a puckering of the frowning

a vain attempt to forget about that,

As thoroughly penetrates deep into the heart,

It sinks in the bone marrow -

And never smile was no smile, that smile

But only just,

Smile from cradle to grave

Smiling can once;

When you smile, He

end all misery.

by Visions of W. Blake - ed. Oscar Mondadori

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William Blake Love give no Alda Merini

not give love to my fate

keep me open all seasons

ago that my great and warm decline

not fall asleep long drives

to catch all the passions

tenderly on sleep

cushion where they grow provident

ambitions of universal love and passion,

take my everything and I do not do evil.

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Madame de Bourbon-Conti, 1731, Noel-Nicolas Coypel

step forward to traveling

metal objects between the stars

in men with tired,

rape the moon

opening yourselves pharmacies.

E 'full time grape

and the wine begins to live

between the mountains and the sea.

In Chile dancing cherries,

singing girls brown

water glitters in the guitars.

The sun kisses every door

and does wonders with the grain.

The first wine is pink,

sweet soft like a child;

the second wine is robust

as the voice of sailor

and third wine is a topaz,

a poppy and a fire.

My house has sea and land,

my wife has big eyes

wild hazel

when night comes the sea

dress in white and green,

and the moon between the foam

dream as a Marine wife.

I will not change the planet.