Shlomo ibn Gabirol Poems

Let earth and sea and the Temple's throng
And every highway become exalted,
The world and all who therein do dwell,
...

To the glorious one, girdled by praise,
Great in deeds and tremendous in ways,
Who filleth with wonders our days,
...

Why are you troubled and frightened, my soul?
Be still and dwell where you are.
Since the world to you is small as a hand,
you won't, my storm, get far.

Better than pitching from court to court
is sitting before the throne of your Lord;
if you distance yourself from others you'll flourish
and surely see your reward.

If your desire is like a fortified city,
a siege will bring it down in time:
You have no portion here in this world -
so wake for the world to come.
...

I look for you early,
my rock and my refuge,
offering you worship
morning and night;
before your vastness
I come confused
and afraid for you see
the thoughts of my heart.

What could the heart
and tongue compose,
or spirit's strength
within me to suit you?
But song soothes you
and so I'll give praise
to your being as long
as your breath-in-me moves.
...

I'm prince to the poem my slave,
I'm harp to the court musicians,
my song is a turban for viziers' heads,
a crown for kings in their kingdoms:

and here I've lived just sixteen years,
and my heart is like eighty within them.
...

My words are driven by worry,
my joy in sighing's put out -
when I see others laughing my heart splits
for my life as it slips away from me.

"Should a boy of sixteen be sighing, my friend,
and mourning the day of his death,
when he could be strong in his youth,
with his cheek like a rose in the sun?"

From boyhood my heart has judged me
and so my soul has been bowed,
and it placed understanding and learning across it
and cut my soul along wrath.

"What good does anxiousness do you?
Be patient, your wound will heal.
You moan inside your trouble in vain:
What help could you bring with your tears?"

But why should I wait, and how long can I hope
when the day is full, and the end is far,
and no one in Gilead knows of balm
for the pain of a plague-stricken man.
...

The storm-clouds lowed above us like bulls.
Autumn was angry, and its face darkened
and put them to chase like wisps of wool,
like a ship's captain blasting its horn.

The heavens went black in a thickening mist,
as the morning stars and their light were absorbed,
then the sun with its wing whisked them across
the earth until they split and it burst.

The wind beat at the sheets of rain,
and the clouds were cut into threads reaching down
into the world below - drenching
ridges, preparing the furrows for sowing.

On the hills, hidden grasses emerged
like secrets a man had long withheld:
all winter the clouds wept until suddenly
life again swept through the trees of the field.
...