Golden Age Sonnets

A la noche

Noche, fabricadora de embelecos,
loca, imaginativa, quimerista,
que muestras al que en ti su bien conquista
los montes llanos y los mares secos;

habitadora de cerebros huecos,
mecnica, filsofa, alquimista,
encubridora vil, lince sin vista,
espantadiza de tus mismos ecos:

la sombra, el miedo, el mal se te atribuya,
solcita, poeta, enferma, fra,
manos del bravo y pies del fugitivo.

Que vele o duerma, media vida es tuya:
si velo, te lo pago con el da,
y si duermo, no siento lo que vivo.

To the Night

Night, you fabricator of deceptions,
insane, fantastic, and chimerical,
who show those who derive delight from you
the mountains flattened and the seas gone dry;

inhabitor of hollow, empty brains,
mechanic, alchemist, philosopher,
a vile concealer, lynx that cannot see,
you are of your own echoes terrified:

darkness, fear, and evil are your works,
cautious, poetess, infirm and cold,
with ruffian’s hands and feet of fugitive.

Whether I sleep or wake, half my life’s yours:
if I’m awake, I pay you the next day,
and if I sleep, I sense not what I live.

— Lope de Vega


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