William Shakespeare - Sonet XVII

Cine-mi va crede versu-n viitor?
Era cu al tău farmec împlinit.
Poemu-n timp devine un cavou,
Fără trăire, te-a-njumătăţit.
Dac-aş descrie chipul tău frumos,
Enumerându-ţi fiecare har,
Cei ce-or veni mi-ar spune „Mincinos:
Pe-aici chipuri de înger nu apar.”
Şi ce-aş fi scris, îngălbenit de vremi,
Vor fi scorneli de batrânel limbut,
Iar farmecele tale - aiureli,
Cum se scriau poemele-n trecut.
Dar dacă un copil ai zămisli,
În el şi-n versul meu te-ar regăsi.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say „This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches never touched earthly faces.”
So should my papers yellowed with their age
Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

Traducere: Laurean Mihai Gherman