من اروع قصائد شكسبير

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day
Thou art more lovely and more temperate
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May
And summer's lease hath all too short a dat
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines
And often is his gold complexion dimmed
And every fair from fair sometimes declines
By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade
when in eternal lines to time thou growest
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see
So long lives this. and this gives life to thee



الترجمة::


من ذا يقارن حسنكِ المغري بصيف قد تجلى
وفنون سحرك قد بدت في ناظري أسمى وأغلى
تجني الرياح العاتيات على البراعم وهي جذلى
والصيف يمضي مسرعا اذ عقده المحدود ولى
كم أشرقت عين السماء بحرها تلتهب
ولكم خبأ في وجهها الذهبي نور يغرب

لابد للحسن البهي عن الجميل سيذهب
فـالـدهر تغـير واطـوار الـطـبـيعـة قـلـب
لـكـن صيـفـكِ سرمـدي مـا اعـتراه ذبول
لن يـفـقـد الحسن الذي ملكت فيه بخـيـل
والموت لن يزهـو بـظلكِ في حماه يجول
ستعاصرين الدهر في شعري وفيه أقول:
ما دامت الأنفاس تصعـد والـعيون تحـدق
سيظل شعري خالداً وعليك عمراً يـغـدق



ROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory;
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thout that are now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.



S fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay.
If all were minded so, the times should cease,
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look whom she best endowed she gave the more,
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish.
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

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