Boatswain, el perro de Lord Byron.

Retrato pintado por Thomas Sanders.

Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the virtues of Man, without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
Boatswain, a dog.

*

Cerca de este lugar
están los despojos de alguien
que poseía Belleza sin Vanidad,
Fortaleza sin Insolencia,
Valentía sin Ferocidad,
todas las virtudes del hombre, sin sus vicios.
Estos elogios, que serían alabanzas insignificantes
si estuvieran inscritas sobre cenizas humanas,
no son sino un justo tributo a la memoria de
Boatswain, un perro.

Allen Ginsberg sobre Neal Cassady.

When I heard at the Close of the Day

WHEN I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d;
And else, when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still I was not happy;
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,
When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming, O then I was happy;
O then each breath tasted sweeter—and all that day my food nourish’d me more—and the beautiful day pass’d well,
And the next came with equal joy—and with the next, at evening, came my friend;
And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me, whispering, to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,
In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy. Walt Whitman, Calamus.