Ni el alma profética del mundo
Ni mis miedos, el porvenir soñando,
De mi amor leal prevén el plazo
Aunque tan inminente parecía.
La fatídica luna ya eclipsada,
Mófase el augur del vaticinio;
El período incierto ha culminado
Y la paz con olivos se corona.
El rocío de esta era jubilosa
Renueva mi amor, vence a la muerte,
Pues yo seguiré vivo en verso humilde
Mientras turbas incultas ella estraga.
Y tú tendrás un monumento
Cuando tumbas de bronce sean escombros.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.