"Weary with toil...", William Shakespeare

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind when body's work's expired:
     For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
      Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
     Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.

Cansado de los tráfagos del día
en solitario lecho me reposo.
Mas nada puedo yo contra el acoso
de tu imagen, y soy de ella vigía
     hora tras hora. De la lejanía
en que te pierdes, mi idear fogoso
te me hace tan como eres que es penoso
saberte hija de mi fantasía.
      No duermes, sino velas, a mi lado.
No traes paz, sino desasosiego.
Querer asirte es verse condenado
a no cejar de dar palos de ciego.
      Y ni un momento, en tanto esto concibo,
he dejado, a mi ver, de estar contigo.

(Tr. Carlos Peregrín Otero
  Pic: angel, for The Pic-Poem Book series)