18.1.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thy warmth so swift to kindle and burn;
Yet thine love fades quick, like the sun’s last ray,
Pray, tell me, from whence cometh this scorn?
I wither without thee my morningstar,
None hath endured such sorrow as a man cast from Eden;
I call upon all men, both near and far,
Plead with my lover, for my soul is barren;
Pray, may I yet still gaze upon thy form?
Journey to thee o’er these hills and seas?
Summer flees, in her wake an unending storm,
‘Tis o’er, my breath this moment must cease;
Let death’s cruel hand make my heart to sputter,
Lest the glint in thine eye once more set my heart aflutter.
Yours, Bekbulatovich.
18.2.
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s night?
Thy presence, like a gale, so cold and drear,
Yet thou dost linger, freezing with thy might,
Is this thy love, my sweet? Pray, hold thee near.
In thine absence, my spirit gay doth glow,
I blossom like a flower ‘scap’d the frost.
For with thee, life each day is but a woe;
Pass hence, like seasons turn, lest I be lost.
I call upon the heav’nly hosts above
To banish thee afar and set me free.
Turn hence thy gaze, and tempt not summer’s love,
For flames shall melt the ice thou bring’st to me.
If death should fail to act, if thou dost falter,
I shall myself put thee to eternal slumber.
Mstislavskaya.
