Stay with me, Ariel, while I pack, and with your first free act
Delight my leaving; share my resigning thoughts
As you have served my revelling wishes: then, brave spirit,
Ages to you of song and daring, and to me
Briefly, Milan, then earth. In all, things have turned out better
Than I once expected or ever deserved;
I am glad that I did not recover my dukedom till
I do not want it; I am glad that Miranda
No longer pays me any attention; I am glad I have freed you,
So at last I can really beliеve I shall die.
For under your influеnce, death is inconceivable:
On walks through winter woods, a bird's dry carcass
Agitates the retina with novel images,
A stranger's quiet collapse in a noisy street
Is the beginning of much lively speculation,
And every time some dear flesh disappears
What is real is the arriving grief; thanks to your service,
The lonely and unhappy are very much alive.
But now all these heavy books are no use to me any more, for
Where I go, words carry no weight: it is best,
Then, I surrender their fascinating counsel
To the silent dissolution of the sea
Which misuses nothing because it values nothing;
Whereas man overvalues everything
Yet, when he learns the price is pegged to his valuation,
Complains bitterly he is being ruined which, of course, he is.
So kings find it odd that they should have a million subjects
Yet share in the thoughts of none, and seducers
Are sincerely puzzled at being unable to love
What they are bale to possess; so, long ago,
In an open boat, I wept at giving a city,
Common warmth and touching substance, for a gift
In dealing with shadows. If age, which is certainly
Just as wicked as youth, look any wiser,
It is only that youth is still able to believe
It will get away with anything, while age
Knows all too well that it has got away with nothing:
The child runs out to play in the garden, convinced
That the furniture will still go on with its thinking lesson,
Who, fifty years later, if he plays at all,
Will first ask its kind permission to be excused.
Delight my leaving; share my resigning thoughts
As you have served my revelling wishes: then, brave spirit,
Ages to you of song and daring, and to me
Briefly, Milan, then earth. In all, things have turned out better
Than I once expected or ever deserved;
I am glad that I did not recover my dukedom till
I do not want it; I am glad that Miranda
No longer pays me any attention; I am glad I have freed you,
So at last I can really beliеve I shall die.
For under your influеnce, death is inconceivable:
On walks through winter woods, a bird's dry carcass
Agitates the retina with novel images,
A stranger's quiet collapse in a noisy street
Is the beginning of much lively speculation,
And every time some dear flesh disappears
What is real is the arriving grief; thanks to your service,
The lonely and unhappy are very much alive.
But now all these heavy books are no use to me any more, for
Where I go, words carry no weight: it is best,
Then, I surrender their fascinating counsel
To the silent dissolution of the sea
Which misuses nothing because it values nothing;
Whereas man overvalues everything
Yet, when he learns the price is pegged to his valuation,
Complains bitterly he is being ruined which, of course, he is.
So kings find it odd that they should have a million subjects
Yet share in the thoughts of none, and seducers
Are sincerely puzzled at being unable to love
What they are bale to possess; so, long ago,
In an open boat, I wept at giving a city,
Common warmth and touching substance, for a gift
In dealing with shadows. If age, which is certainly
Just as wicked as youth, look any wiser,
It is only that youth is still able to believe
It will get away with anything, while age
Knows all too well that it has got away with nothing:
The child runs out to play in the garden, convinced
That the furniture will still go on with its thinking lesson,
Who, fifty years later, if he plays at all,
Will first ask its kind permission to be excused.
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