801. "Night fills the house with its funereal breeze..." by Victor Hugo

Night fills the house with its funereal breeze.
Not a sound. Darkness. Shadowy forms creep
To and fro beside those who are asleep.
While I become a thing,
                                    I feel the things nearby
Being transformed to living entities.
My wall's a face, and sees;
                                         Against the grayish sky
My two pale windows watch me slumbering.

(trans. E. H. and A. M. Blackmore)

Source: Selected Poems of Victor Hugo: A Bilingual Edition

802. Untitled, by Utpalaraja

When I think how I have known
parties where the lyre was heard
and the heavenly voice of poets,
and when I think of anguish
and of partings from my friends;
rejoicing for a moment, then despairing,
I know not what to call the world:
whether made of nectar or of poison.

(trans Daniel H. H. Ingalls)

Source: Sanskrit Poetry from Vidyakara's Treasury