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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - From The Spanish Cancioneros
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I.
Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful, 
Heart so full of care and cumber, 
I was lapped in rest and slumber, 
Ye have made me wakeful, wistful! 
In this life of labor endless 
Who shall comfort my distresses? 
Querulous my soul and friendless 
In its sorrow shuns caresses. 
Ye have made me, ye have made me 
Querulous of you, that care not, 
Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not 
Say to what ye have betrayed me. 

II.
Some day, some day 
O troubled breast, 
Shalt thou find rest. 

If Love in thee 
To grief give birth, 
Six feet of earth 
Can more than he; 
There calm and free 
And unoppressed 
Shalt thou find rest. 

The unattained 
In life at last, 
When life is passed, 
Shall all be gained; 
And no more pained, 
No more distressed, 
Shalt thou find rest. 

III.
Come, O Death, so silent flying 
That unheard thy coming be, 
Lest the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to me. 
For thy sure approach perceiving, 
In my constancy and pain 
I new life should win again, 
Thinking that I am not living. 
So to me, unconscious lying, 
All unknown thy coming be, 
Lest the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to me. 
Unto him who finds thee hateful, 
Death, thou art inhuman pain; 
But to me, who dying gain, 
Life is but a task ungrateful. 
Come, then, with my wish complying, 
All unheard thy coming be, 
Lest the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to me. 

IV.
Glove of black in white hand bare, 
And about her forehead pale 
Wound a thin, transparent veil, 
That doth not conceal her hair; 
Sovereign attitude and air, 
Cheek and neck alike displayed 
With coquettish charms arrayed, 
Laughing eyes and fugitive;-- 
This is killing men that live, 
`Tis not mourning for the dead.
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