Luminous Decay

                              Sleep

Sleep, when a soul that her own clouds cover Wails that sorrow should always keep Watch, nor see in the gloom above her Sleep, Down, through darkness naked and steep, Sinks, and the gifts of his grace recover Soon the soul, though her wound be deep. God beloved of us, all men's lover, All most weary that smile or weep Feel thee afar or anear them hover, Sleep.  John Anster Fitzgerald - The Dream

THE DISPUTE OF THE HEART AND 

BODY OF FRANÇOIS VILLON 

Who is this I hear!—Lo, this is I, thine heart, 
That holds on merely now by a slender string. 
Strength fails me, shape and sense are rent apart, 
The blood in me is turned to a bitter thing, 
Seeing thee skulk here like a dog shivering.— 
Yea, and for what?—For that thy sense found sweet.— 
What irks it thee?—I feel the sting of it.— 
Leave me at peace.—Why?—Nay now, leave me at peace; 
I will repent when I grow ripe in wit.— 
I say no more.—I care not though thou cease.— 

What are thou, trow?—Art thou a boy still?—Nay.— 
Is it hot lust that spurs thee with its sting, 
Grasping thy throat? Know'st thou not anything?— 
Yea, black and white, when milk is specked with flies, 
I can make out.—No more?—Nay, in no wise. 
Shall I begin again the count of these?— 
Thou are undone.—I care not though thou cease.— 

I have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart. 
Wert thou a poor mad fool or weak of wit, 
Then might'st thou plead this pretext with thine heart; 
But if thou know not good from evil a whit, 
Either thy head is hard as stone to hit, 
Or shame, not honour, gives thee most content. 
What canst thou answer to this argument?_ 
When I am dead I shall be well at ease.— 
God! What good luck!—Thou art over eloquent.— 
I say no more.—I care not though thou cease.— 

Whence is this ill?—From sorrow and not from sin. 
When Saturn packed my wallet up for me 
I well believe he put these ills therein.— 
Fool, wilt thou make thy servant lord of thee? 
Her now the wise king's counsel; thus saith he; 
All power upon the stars a wise man hath; 
There is no planet that shall do him scathe.— 
Nay, as they made me I grow and I decrease.— 
What say'st thou?—Truly this is all my faith.— 
I say no more.—I care not though thou cease.— 

Wouldst thou live still?—God help me that I may!— 
Then thou must—What? turn penitent and pray?— 
Read always—What?—Grave words and good to say; 
Leave off the ways of fools, lest they displease.— 
Good; I will do it.—Wilt thou remember?—Yea.— 
Abide not till there come an evil day. 
I say no more.—I care not though thou cease. 

Translated by Algernon Charles Swinburne