Luis de Gongora y Argote (1561-1627)Mientras por competir con tu cabello,oro brunido al sol relumbra en vano;mientras con menosprecio en medio el llanomira tu blanca frente el lilio bello;mientras a cada labio, por cogello.siguen mas ojos que al clavel temprano;y mientras triunfa con desden lozanodel luciente cristal tu gentil cuello:goza cuello, cabello, labio y frente,antes que lo que fue en tu edad doradaoro, lilio, clavel, cristal luciente,no solo en plata o viola troncadase vuelva, mas tu y ello juntamenteen tierra, en humo, en polvo, en sombra, en nada.Gregorio de Matos (1636-1695)Discreta e formosissima Maria,Enquanto estamos vendo a qualquer horaEm tuas faces a rosada Aurora,Em teus olhos, e boca o Sol, e o dia:Enquanto com gentil descortesiaO ar, que fresco Adonis te namora,Te espalha a rica tranca voadoraQuando vem passear-te pela fria:Goza, goza da flor da mocidade,Que o tempo trota a toda ligeireza,E imprime em toda a flor sua pisada.Oh nao aguardes, que a madura idadeTe converta essa flor, essa belezaEm terra, em cinza, em po, em sombra, em nada. A Defence of Poetry, 1821 Man is an instrument over which a series of external and internal impressions are driven, like the alternations of an ever-changing wind over an olian lyre, which move it by their motion to ever-changing melody. Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert-That from heaven or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest,Like a cloud of fire;The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden light'ningOf the sunken sun,O'er which clouds are bright'ning,Thou dost float and run,Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heaven,In the broad daylightThou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight-Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphereWhose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to see,As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aerial hueAmong the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:Like a rose embower'dIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower'd,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken'd flowers-All that ever wasJoyous and clear and fresh-thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymeneal,Or triumphal chant,Match'd with thine would be allBut an empty vaunt-A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What