Longfellow: Children. Translation Der Giftbaum W. Blake: A Poison Tree. Hopkins: Pied Beauty. Translation Sonett Shakespeare. Sechstes Kapitel. Aus: Kritik des Herzens. Williams: Perfection. Translation Ralph W. Extraction Sonett Shakespeare. Wordsworth: Daffodils. Translation Karl Kraus Sonett 18 Shakespeare. Magee Jr. Poe: The Raven. Translation Charles M.
El grito. Monolog Aus: Polenlieder. Act 5 Scene 5. Translation Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi Who looks out with my eyes? From: The Tragedy of King Lear. Cummings: i carry your heart with me. Comment Canto His many avowals of love, moreover, are constantly refuted by his harsh attacks on historical figures or groups in lines that convey a rage and contempt more deeply felt than professed love. In the very Canto 91 in which love, identified with light and creation, is the mover and object of the poet, democracies, Jews, and others of whom Pound disapproves are equated with filth.
Lillian Feder. Pound and Ovid. In: George Bornstein Ed. Ezra Pound among the poets. University of Chicago Press; Comment That's really nice. Welcome here, Mrs. Maybe you will like this one too. You and I I explain quietly. You hear me shouting. You try a new tack. I feel old wounds reopen. You see both sides.
I see your blinkers. I am placatory. You sense a new selfishness. I am a dove. You recognize the hawk. You offer an olive branch. I feel the thorns. You bleed. I see crocodile tears.
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I withdraw. You reel from the impact. He presents the BBC Radio 4 programme Poetry Please and records voice-overs for commercials, as well as performing his own poetry regularly. I'm sorry I must correct a typo in the second verse of: Canto Seit ihrem I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described,--"He looks up--the clouds are split," etc. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split Asunder,--and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not! At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. Comment I Like it! Here another one of my favourites: Twelve songs: IX Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week, my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moob and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. Comment Eins nur ist, was der Mensch zu allen Zeiten gesucht hat Mai Novalis. Viele Leser kennen sie nicht. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Sie entspricht der Persephone in der griechischen Mythologie. Comment Growing Old What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone. Is it to feel our strength - Not our bloom only, but our strength -decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more weakly strung? Yes, this, and more! It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young. It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain.
It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion -none. It is -last stage of all - When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man. Matthew Arnold. Bei Hitze ein Bier sehn, das man nicht bezahlen kann. Gottfried Benn — Comment Mrs. Fegt weg den Wald und des Meeres Flut, Nie wird es sein, so wie es war. Nie wieder gut. While attempting to cross over Helvellyn to Grasmere he slipped from a steep part of the rock where the ice was not thawed, and perished.
His body was discovered as is told in this poem. Walter Scott heard of the accident, and both he and I, without either of us knowing that the other had taken up the subject, each wrote a poem in admiration of the dog's fidelity. His contains a most beautiful stanza "How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber, When the wind waved his garment how oft didst thou start.
The Dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the creature doing here? It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below!
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Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast.
Not free from boding thoughts, a while The Shepherd stood; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled Discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history. From those abrupt and perilous rocks The Man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the Shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the Traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell!
A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This Dog, had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated Traveller died, The Dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate!
Comment Ich kann mich dunkel an den Film erinnern, aber nicht an die Grabrede Hat mich allerdings an ein anders Gedicht denken lassen, dass mal in einem Film vorkam. Der Film war doof, aber das Gedicht war klasse. She being Brand -new; and you know consequently a little stiff i was careful of her and having thoroughly oiled the universal joint tested my gas felt of her radiator made sure her springs were O.
Still- ;stand E. Christian Morgenstern — Comment Da kann ich nur sagen zwei Dumme ein Gedanke Kennst du das hier schon? Vorm Fliegelflagel sieh dich vor, dem mampfen Schnatterrind! In sich gekeimt, so stand er hier: Da kam verschnoff der Zipferlak Mit Flammenlefze angewacktt Und gurgt in seiner Gier.
Mit eins! Die biffe Klinge ritscheropf! Trennt er vom Hals den toten Kopf, Und wiehernd sprengt er heim. Komm an mein Herz, aromer Sohn! O blumer Tag! O schlusse Fron! Lewis Carroll. Das Original hab ich nicht parat Comment The Morning-Watch O joys! All the long hours Of night, and rest, Through the still shrouds Of sleep, and clouds, This dew fell on my breast; Oh, how it bloods And spirits all my earth!
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In what rings And hymning circulations the quick world Awakes and sings; The rising winds And falling springs, Birds, beasts, all things Adore him in their kinds. O let me climb When I lie down! The pious soul by night Is like a clouded star whose beams, though said To shed their light Under some cloud, Yet are above, And shine and move Beyond that misty shroud. Comment A Summer Morning Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.
I stand with thee outside the door, The air not yet is close with heat, And far across the yellowing wheat The waves are breaking on the shore. A lovely day! Yet many such, Each like to each, this month have passed, And none did so supremely shine. One thing they lacked: the perfect touch Of thee — and thou art come at last, And half this loveliness is thine. In concluding my notices of this class of poems it may be as well to observe that among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets" are a few alluding to morning impressions which might be read with mutual benefit in connection with these "Evening Voluntaries.
Time was when field and watery cove With modulated echoes rang, While choirs of fervent Angels sang Their vespers in the grove; Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both. II No sound is uttered,--but a deep And solemn harmony pervades The hollow vale from steep to steep, And penetrates the glades. Far-distant images draw nigh, Called forth by wondrous potency Of beamy radiance, that imbues, Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues!
In vision exquisitely clear, Herds range along the mountain side; And glistening antlers are descried; And gilded flocks appear. Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe That this magnificence is wholly thine! III And, if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail, Yon hazy ridges to their eyes Present a glorious scale, Climbing suffused with sunny air, To stop--no record hath told where! And tempting Fancy to ascend, And with immortal Spirits blend!
Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, And see to what fair countries ye are bound! And if some traveller, weary of his road, Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, Ye Genii! IV Such hues from their celestial Urn Were wont to stream before mine eye, Where'er it wandered in the morn Of blissful infancy. This glimpse of glory, why renewed? Nay, rather speak with gratitude; For, if a vestige of those gleams Survived, 'twas only in my dreams. Dread Power! Alstone, now in America. It is pleasant to make this public acknowledgment to a man of genius, whom I have the honour to rank among my friends.
Allusions to the Ode, entitled "Intimations of Immortality," pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem. Ich bin wirklich gespannt auf mehr von William Wordsworth zum Morgen- und Abendthema. August in Montagnola, Schweiz. EARTH has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, Endears that Lingerer.
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And how blest her sway Like influence never may my soul reject If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked With glorious forms in numberless array, To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose Gleams from a world in which the saints repose. Thanks; thou hast snapped a fireside Prisoner's chain, Exulting Warbler! Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! Comment Proletarian Poet A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing the sidewalk Her shoe in her hand. It seems that death has found the portals it will enter by: my lungs, pathetic oblong ghosts, one paler than the other on the doctor's viewing screen.
Looking up "pneumonia," I learn it can, like an erratic dog, turn mean and snap life short for someone under two or "very old over November Ein Weckruf? Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt? Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand? How shall I lift it gently up over you on to other things? I would so very much like to tuck it away among long lost objects in the dark. Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie.
If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition, That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate. And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust.
And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth; Tell honor how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth; Tell favor how it falters. And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness.
And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention. And as they do reply, So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness; Tell justice of delay. And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie.
Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing— Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing— Stab at thee he that will, No stab the soul can kill.
Comment The Act There were the roses, in the rain. Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said, and cut them and gave them to me in my hand. Die Tathandlung Da standen die Rosen im Regen. Ich bitt dich, schneid sie nicht ab. Comment The Dream Of Wearing Shorts Forever To go home and wear shorts forever in the enormous paddocks, in that warm climate, adding a sweater when winter soaks the grass, to camp out along the river bends for good, wearing shorts, with a pocketknife, a fishing line and matches, or there where the hills are all down, below the plain, to sit around in shorts at evening on the plank verandah - If the cardinal points of costume are Robes, Tat, Rig and Scunge, where are shorts in this compass?
Nur die seligen Engel wachen, Leise durch den Himmel schwebend, Alle, die hier unten schieden, An die reinen Herzen hebend. Theodor Storm — Two years at least passed between the writing of the four first stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; but there may be no harm in adverting here to particular feelings or 'experiences' of my own mind on which the structure of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being.
I have said elsewhere-- "A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death! I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be translated, in something of the same way, to heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. Many times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality.
At that time I was afraid of such processes. In later periods of life I have deplored, as we have all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character, and have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines-- "Obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings;" etc. To that dream-like vividness and splendour which invest objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here: but having in the poem regarded it as presumptive evidence of a prior state of existence, I think it right to protest against a conclusion, which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief.
It is far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith, as more than an element in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in mind that, though the idea is not advanced in revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of Man presents an analogy in its favour. Accordingly, a pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds of many nations; and, among all persons acquainted with classic literature, is known as an ingredient in Platonic philosophy.
Archimedes said that he could move the world if he had a point whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the same aspirations as regards the world of his own mind? Having to wield some of its elements when I was impelled to write this poem on the "Immortality of the Soul," I took hold of the notion of pre- existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity for authorising me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could as a poet.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. II The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose, The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare, Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
III Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday;-- Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
IV Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. Oh evil day! Where is it now, the glory and the dream? V Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. VI Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.
VIII Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-- Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! IX O joy! Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. X Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man; I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. Theodor Storm. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
Walter A. Dietrich H. Comment Hier ist die englische Variante, December. But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel and to possess, And roam alone, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! Lord Byron. Comment Und da wir gerade beim Thema 'Solitude, sind It was founded on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a little girl who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps were traced by her parents to the middle of the lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced.
The body however was found in the canal.
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The way in which the incident was treated and the spiritualising of the character might furnish hints for contrasting the imaginative influences which I have endeavoured to throw over common life with Crabbe's matter of fact style of treating subjects of the same kind. This is not spoken to his disparagement, far from it, but to direct the attention of thoughtful readers, into whose hands these notes may fall, to a comparison that may both enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, and tend to produce in them a catholic judgment.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, --The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept--and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet;" --When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!
O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. Comment Das Original: Solitude To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.
Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
Comment When we two are parted When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sank chill on my brow It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me Why wert thou so dear?
In secret we met In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. In Schweigen und Leid. JULY 13, No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my Sister.
Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes. FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses.
Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restorationfeelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love.
Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightenedthat serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved.
For nature then The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by To me was all in all. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence.
For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels 0 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes.
Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! Nor, perchance-- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence--wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love--oh!
Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! Twinkling with delight in the house twinkling with the moonlight, Bless my baby bless my baby bright,.
Comment The Yellow Gas The yellow gas is fired from street to street past rows of heartless homes and hearths unlit, dead churches, and the unending pavement beat by crowds - say rather, haggard shades that flit Round nightly haunts of their delusive dream, where'er our paradisal instinct starves: - till on the utmost post, its sinuous gleam crawls in the oily water of the wharves; Where Homer's sea loses his keen breath, hemm'd what place rebellious piles were driven down - the priestlike waters to this task condemn'd to wash the roots of the inhuman town!
Ay, we had saved our days and kept them whole, to whom no part in our old joy remains, had felt those bright winds sweeping thro' our soul and all the keen sea tumbling in our veins, Had thrill'd to harps of sunrise, when the height whitens, and dawn dissolves in virgin tears, or caught, across the hush'd ambrosial night, the choral music of the swinging spheres, Or drunk the silence if nought else - But no! I only pray, red flame or deluge, may that end be soon! Christopher Brennan — Seele des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wasser! Schicksal des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wind!
Johann Wolfgang v. Comment Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose Gertrude Stein. In garb, then, resembling Some gay gondolier, I'll whisper thee, trembling, "Our bark, love, is near: "Now, now, while there hover "Those clouds o'er the moon, "'Twill waft thee safe over "Yon silent Lagoon. O, komm! Comment Weil es gerade so gut passt: Herbsttag Herr: es ist Zeit.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los. Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr. Rainer Maria Rilke. Comment Das Reden nimmt kein End' 1. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Uns soll geholfen sein. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Bald zieht der Kaiser ein. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — So schlag' der Teufel d'rein! Die Welt sie steht in Flammen, Sie sitzen noch beisammen. Wie lange soll es dauern Das Parla — Parla — Parlament?
O Volk mach' ihm ein End'! Your summer's reign was grand. Beshadow now the dials of your sun and let your winds run rough across the land. The latest fruits command to fill and shine: For them, let two more warmer days arrive to push them to perfection and to drive the final sweetness in the heavy wine.
The man without a house will build no more, the man without a mate will sole remain, will wake, will read, write letters long with pain and walk the boulevards, restless to the core, where falling leaves are drifting with the rain. Translation by Walter A. Autumn Day Lord: it is time. The summer was immense. Let thine shadows upon the sundials fall, and unleash the winds upon the open fields. Command the last fruits into fullness; give them just two more ripe, southern days, urge them into completion and press the last bit of sweetness into the heavy wine.
He who has no house now, will no longer build. He who is alone now, will remain alone, will awake in the night, read, write long letters, and will wander restlessly along the avenues, back and forth, as the leaves begin to blow. Juni — Nr. Comment moustique: 89 -- gesucht und gefunden Seele des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wasser!
Schicksal des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wind! Karl Friedrich von Gerok deutscher Theologe und Lyriker. So ging es viel Jahre, bis lobesam Der von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck zu sterben kam. Legt mir eine Birne mit ins Grab. Und die Kinder klagten, das Herze schwer: "He is dod nu. Wer giwt uns nu 'ne Beer? Theodor Fontane — Entstanden Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Ode to Psyche O Goddess! I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true! O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
O brightest! So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
O Strahlendste! Treu, Psyche, dich! Wilhelm Busch. Comment Survivor Everyday, I think about dying. About disease, starvation, violence, terrorism, war, the end of the world. It helps keep my mind off things. Raymond A. Comment Comete. Just the detail that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about— as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun. Studie: medicalwriter webde Claus.
A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself--and equal to all woes, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.
Wer rettete vom Tode mich, Von Sklaverei? Ich dich ehren? Hast du die Schmerzen gelindert Je des Beladenen? Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Entstanden zwischen und Der Wind hat sich in einem Baum gefangen. An einem Fenster klebt ein fetter Mann. Ein grauer Clown zieht sich die Stiefel an. Ein Kinderwagen schreit und Hunde fluchen. Alfred Lichtenstein — Comment Le Jardin The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour. Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk. Oscar Wilde. Comment Thank you, meera. That's brilliant! Au Jardin O you away high there, you that lean From amber lattices upon the cobalt night, I am below amid the pine trees, Amid the little pine trees, hear me!
Well, there's no use your loving me That way, Lady; For I've nothing but songs to give you. Doch ach! Und ach! Heinrich Heine — Na, un denn --? Denn jehn die Beeden brav ins Bett. Na ja Denn kricht det junge Paar 'n Kind. Denn kocht sie Milch. Denn macht er Krach. Denn is det Kind nich uffn Damm. Denn bleihm die Beeden doch zesamm. Er will noch wat mit blonde Haare: vorn dof und hinten minorenn Denn sind se alt.
Der Sohn haut ab. Der Olle macht nu ooch bald schlapp. Wie der noch scharf uff Muttern war, det is schon beinah nich mehr wahr! Kurt Tucholsky. Comment Ode To A Chestnut On The Ground From bristly foliage you fell complete, polished wood, gleaming mahogany, as perfect as a violin newly born of the treetops, that falling offers its sealed-in gifts, the hidden sweetness that grew in secret amid birds and leaves, a model of form, kin to wood and flour, an oval instrument that holds within it intact delight, an edible rose.
In the heights you abandoned the sea-urchin burr that parted its spines in the light of the chestnut tree; through that slit you glimpsed the world, birds bursting with syllables, starry dew below, the heads of boys and girls, grasses stirring restlessly, smoke rising, rising.
You made your decision, chestnut, and leaped to earth, burnished and ready, firm and smooth as the small breasts of the islands of America. You fell, you struck the ground, but nothing happened, the grass still stirred, the old chestnut sighed with the mouths of a forest of trees, a red leaf of autumn fell, resolutely, the hours marched on across the earth.
Because you are only a seed, chestnut tree, autumn, earth, water, heights, silence prepared the germ, the floury density, the maternal eyelids that buried will again open toward the heights the simple majesty of foliage, the dark damp plan of new roots, the ancient but new dimensions of another chestnut tree in the earth. I asked: "But how do I come here, Who never wished to come; Can the light and air be made more clear, The floor more quietsome, And the doors set wide?
They numb Fast-locked, and fill with fear. Aue ist sehr gut gelungen. September Morning The world's adream in fog's embrace, Still slumber woods and meadows: But soon, through the dissolving lace, You'll see the blue of endless space, The milder grace of autumn's face Transcending golden shadows. Englisch: Walter A. Comment The Tuft of Flowers I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been,—alone, As all must be,' I said within my heart, Whether they work together or apart. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. Comment A Minor Bird I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song. Comment Die freie Marktwirtschaft Ihr sollt die verfluchten Tarife abbauen. Ihr sollt auf euern Direktor vertrauen. Kein Betriebsrat quatsche uns mehr herein, wir wollen freie Wirtschaftler sein! Fort, die Gruppen - sei unser Panier!
Na, ihr nicht. Aber wir. Ihr sollt nicht mehr zusammenstehn - wollt ihr wohl auseinandergehn! Keine Kartelle in unserm Revier! Ihr nicht. Wir stehen neben den Hochofenflammen in Interessengemeinschaften fest zusammen. Gut organisiert sitzen wir hier Kurt Tucholsky — Comment Herbstaugen Presse dich eng an den Boden. Die Erde riecht noch nach Sommer,. So kommt es denn zuletzt heraus, Dass ich ein ganz famoses Haus.
Der Dorfschulmeister stieg hinauf auf seines Blechschilds Messingknauf und sprach zum Wolf, der seine Pfoten geduldig kreuzte vor dem Toten: "Der Werwolf", - sprach der gute Mann, "des Weswolfs"- Genitiv sodann, "dem Wemwolf" - Dativ, wie man's nennt, "den Wenwolf" - damit hat's ein End. Doch da er kein Gelehrter eben, so schied er dankend und ergeben. Comment Herbstbild Dies ist ein Herbsttag, wie ich keinen sah! Christian Friedrich Hebbel — Comment The Teasers Not but they die, the teasers and the dreams, Not but they die, and tell the careful flood To give them what they clamour for and why.
You could not fancy where they rip to blood You could not fancy nor that mud I have heard speak that will not cake or dry. Our claims to act appear so small to these Our claims to act colder lunacies That cheat the love, the moment, the small fact. Comment Missing Dates Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. It is not your system or clear sight that mills Down small to the consequence a life requires; Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires. Kleine Blumen Was ist die Welt? Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Ihren Duft atme ich ein und sehne mich nach Joseph von Eichendorff.
Franz Grillparzer Comment To Autumn O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. Es hielt sich lange auf der Flucht auf und sog sich ganz mit Lichte an; - da hob die Nacht die goldne Frucht auf: Schwarz ward die Wolke und zerrann. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Einsam in dem Kampf wie in der Ruh. Betty Paoli. Comment Eleanor Rigby Aaaaah look at all the lonely people.
Aaaaah look at all the lonely people. Eleanor Rigby Picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been; Lives in a dream. Waits at the window, Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for? All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Father MacKenzie Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear; No one comes near. Look at him working, Nodding his socks in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care? Eleanor Rigby Died in the church and was buried alone with her name. Nobody came. Father MacKenzie Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from her grave. No one was saved. I was wandering round Bristol one day and saw a shop called Rigby. But I just liked the name.
I was looking for a name that sounded natural. Eleanor Rigby sounded natural. Paul McCartney, Playboy, ; cf. Comment Evening Primrose When once the sun sinks in the west, And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast; Almost as pale as moonbeams are, Or its companionable star, The evening primrose opes anew Its delicate blossoms to the dew; And, hermit-like, shunning the light, Wastes its fair bloom upon the night, Who, blindfold to its fond caresses, Knows not the beauty it possesses; Thus it blooms on while night is by; When day looks out with open eye, Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun, It faints and withers and is gone.
John Clare John Clare 13 July — 20 May was an English poet, born the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption. Comment Dog's Death She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car. Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog! The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver. As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed. Seine Mutter, die selber literarische Ambitionen hatte, ermutigte ihn zu schreiben. Georg Trakl Ein Rondel, frz. Rondeau, ist eine kunstvolle alte Lied- und Gedichtform, bei der zwischen die gleichlautenden Anfangs- und End-Refrainverse zwei oder mehr Verse mit gleichlautendem Endreim gesetzt werden Refraingedicht.
Heut keltern sie den braunen Wein. Da zeigt der Mensch sich froh und lind. Georg Trakl. Wir alle fallen. Und sieh dir andre an: es ist in allen. Comment Solar Fire See the morning dancer, crossing the sky, Turning gold to amber travelling by He must know the answer He must know why. Looking for an answer look to the sky. Shadows getting shorter filling your sight Brightly burning starfire, life giving light Dawning into morning Day into night Looking for an answer, look to the light Sunlight streaming burn through the night First light stealing shine solar fire. Starting from tomorrow look to the sky There's a new day dawning passing you by Follow on life's dancer and than you'll know why Looking for an answer look to the sky.
Comment Der Lesende Ich las schon lang. Seit dieser Nachmittag, mit Regen rauschend, an den Fenstern lag. Den ganzen Himmel scheint sie zu umfassen: der erste Stern ist wie das letzte Haus. Rainer Maria Rilke, September , Westerwede. Comment Poem with Radiometer Four vanes pierced by a spindle, a cotillion in black and white.
Moving in atmosphere lighter than air, one searches out the other moving away. As inside the glass, outside. You move slowly through me, and light bounces from one skin to the other, a kind of feint. To kick at the shadows becomes a function of how we breathe. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight Does the rising sun affright. Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul. The wild deer, wand'ring here and there, Keeps the human soul from care. The lamb misus'd breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife. The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe. The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd Shall never be by woman lov'd. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity. He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the last judgement draweth nigh. He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar. The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from slander's tongue. The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of envy's foot. The poison of the honey bee Is the artist's jealousy. The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags. A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so; Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know, Thro' the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. The babe is more than swaddling bands; Every farmer understands. Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright, And return'd to its own delight. The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar, Are waves that beat on heaven's shore. The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes revenge in realms of death. The beggar's rags, fluttering in air, Does to rags the heavens tear. The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun, Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore. One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands; Or, if protected from on high, Does that whole nation sell and buy. He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mock'd in age and death. He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death. The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. The questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to reply. He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out. The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel crown. Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour's iron brace. When gold and gems adorn the plow, To peaceful arts shall envy bow. A riddle, or the cricket's cry, Is to doubt a fit reply. The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please. If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out. To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you. The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's winding-sheet. The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Dance before dead England's hearse. Every night and every morn Some to misery are born, Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. We are led to believe a lie When we see not thro' the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light.
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God appears, and God is light, To those poor souls who dwell in night; But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day. Comment Der andere Mann Du lernst ihn in einer Gesellschaft kennen. Er ist zu dir nett. Er kann dir alle Tenniscracks nennen. Er sieht gut aus. Du siehst ihn dir an Dann tritt zu euch beiden dein Mann.
Dein Mann kommt nicht gut dabei weg. Und hinten am Hals der Speck! Beurteil uns nie nach den besten Stunden. Aug', mein Aug', was sinkst du nieder? Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Er warb, wie Herrscher werben. Nicht mit Worten, und nicht mit Blicken. Da aber sank der blaue Mantel nieder. Dir o Weib zeig ich mich wahr: Die Frau entfloh voll Graun.
Comment Pigeon Any time I happen to open my front door. He recently took early retirement from his job as a teacher of English at Winchester College and moved to Ely with his partner, the poet Wendy Cope. Comment Chan fhaca mi aingeal no naomh, ach chuala mi fuaim na mara agus eilean mo chridhe na theis meadhan. Angel nor saint have I seen, but I have heard the roar of the Western sea, and the isle of my heart is in the midst of it. Da macht ein Hauch mich von Verfall erzittern. Die Amsel klagt in den entlaubten Zweigen.
Comment Herbstgedichte 2 Dies ist ein Herbsttag, wie ich keinen sah! You was sma't ez sma't could be, But you could n't hide f'om me. Ain't I got two eyes to see! Guess you thought you's awful keen; Evahthing you done, I seen; Seen him tek yo' ahm jes' so, When he got outside de do'-- Oh, I know dat man's yo' beau! Say now, honey, wha'd he say? Nevah min', Miss Lucy! Keep yo' secrets--dat's yo' way Won't tell me an' I'm yo' pal! Paul Laurence Dunbar — Amerikanischer Schriftsteller. Er war einer der ersten schwarzen Dichter, die in den gesamten Vereinigten Staaten Anerkennung erlangten. To Christ Our Lord I caught this morning morning's minion, king- dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy!
My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,--the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! And the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: Thronfolger, -erbe, Herzog dapple: Schleier, Kopftuch to plod: Asche, Gluit to gall: Comment Sonnet d'automne Ils me disent, tes yeux, clairs comme le cristal: Je hais la passion et l'esprit me fait mal!
Je connais les engins de son vieil arsenal: Crime, horreur et folie! Charles Baudelaire — Comment Autumn Sonnet Your eyes like crystal ask me, clear and mute, "in me, strange lover, what do you admire? Roy Campbell — Autumn Sonnet They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes: My heart and soul despise All save that antique brute-like faith of thine;. Sturm — Rainer Maria Rilke, gest. Comment Aus Faust 1. Teil Osterspaziergang [Faust sieht im Gebirge die Sonne untergehen.
Was schein die Flur nur heut so leer? Ferdinand Avenarius — Sunflower Ah, sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun; Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done; Where the Youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin shrouded in snow, Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sunflower wishes to go! Comment A littel Weinachtsgedicht [aus urheberrechtl. Comment Das gilt sogar bis 70 Jahre nach seinem Tod ;-.
Das des Autoren oder das des Musikers? Comment penguin, das hat doch niemand bestritten. Entschjuldigung, dass ich etwas gefragt habe. Comment Aber gefragt hatte doch Chaostranslater, dessen Frage nach dem Vorrang des Urheberrechts ich allerdings nicht beantworten kann. Sonnet When as my minde exemed was from caire, Among the Nymphis my self I did repose: Where I gaue eare to one, who did prepaire Her sugred voice this sequele to disclose.
And thow who wrytes in stately verse and prose, This glorious Kings immortall gloire display. Tell how he doeth in tender yearis essay Aboue his age with skill our arts to blaise. Tell how he doeth with gratitude repay The crowne he wan for his deserued praise. Tell how of Ioue, of Mars, but more of God. The gloire and grace he hath proclaimed abrod. Vergebliche Hoffnung des Lebens. Bitte beachtet aber beim Webposting den Urheberschutz. Das Copyright gilt im allgemeinen noch 70 Jahre nach dem Tod des Autors. Wegen des Urheberrechts leider nur verlinkt.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man, I must be satisfied with my heart, although Winter and summer till old age began My circus animals were all on show, Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot, Lion and woman and the Lord knows what. II What can I but enumerate old themes? First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams, Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose, Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems, That might adorn old songs or courtly shows; But what cared I that set him on to ride, I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride?
And then a counter-truth filled out its play, 'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it; She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away, But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it. I thought my dear must her own soul destroy, So did fanaticism and hate enslave it, And this brought forth a dream and soon enough This dream itself had all my thought and love. And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea; Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said It was the dream itself enchanted me: Character isolated by a deed To engross the present and dominate memory.
III Those masterful images because complete Grew in pure mind, but out of what began? A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street, Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can, Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all the ladders start In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. Wer jetzt nicht reich ist, da der Sommer geht, wird immer warten und sich nie besitzen.
Rainer Maria Rilke — Comment I am most lovely I am most lovely, fair beyond desire: My breasts are sweet, my hair is soft and bright, And every movement flows by instinct right: Full well I know my touch doth burn like fire, That my voice stings the sense like smitten lyre; I am the queen of sensuous delight; Past years are sealed with the signet of my might; And at my feet pale present kneels a buyer. My beds are odorous with soft-shed scent, And strange moon flowers a tremulous twilight air Weave over all; and here, alone I sing My siren songs, until all souls are bent Within the subtle sweet melodious snare.
God, making love, made me love's grievous sting. No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh! Thomas Moore — Die kannte ich noch nicht. Hier ist das Original. The Haunted Palace In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace-- Radiant palace--raised its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair! Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow This--all this--was in the olden Time long ago , And every gentle air that dallied In that sweet day, Upon the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically To a lute's well-timed law. Round about a throne where, sitting, Porphyrogene! In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace-door, Through which came, flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling everymore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing In voices of surpassing beauty The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate. Ah, let us mourn--for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate! And round about his house of glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. And travelers, now, within that valley Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly, rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh--but smile no more.
Wie kalt, wie kalt! Es ist der Liebe milde Zeit. Viel Stroh und Heu; Ein paar Gedichte sind auch dabei. Juli Magdalene, Margarethe Weinen gern allebeede. Comment Song-Day in Autumn When the autumn roses Are heavy with dew, Before the mist discloses The leaf's brown hue, You would, among the laughing hills Of yesterday Walk innocent in the daffodils, Coiffing up your auburn hair In a puritan fillet, a chaste white snare To catch and keep me with you there So far away.
When from the autumn roses Trickles the dew, When the blue mist uncloses And the sun looks through, You from those startled hills Come away, Out of the withering daffodils; Thoughtful, and half afraid, Plaiting a heavy, auburn braid And coiling it round the wise brows of a maid Who was scared in her play. When in the autumn roses Creeps a bee, And a trembling flower encloses His ecstasy, You from your lonely walk Turn away, And leaning to me like a flower on its stalk, Wait among the beeches For your late bee who beseeches To creep through your loosened hair till he reaches, Your heart of dismay.
Doch, ich will mein Bestes tun, Nach der Arbeit ist gut ruhn. Comment Abendlicher Reigen 2. Lange schaut der Mond herein. Dann sprach noch weiter sie: Dich macht nicht Kranz noch Kleid Zu dem, was ich. Der Herbstwind nach dem Sommer weht - Geht alles seinen Gang.
Geht alles seinen Gang - Wie lang? Comment The Crocus Beneath the sunny autumn sky, With gold leaves dropping round, We sought, my little friend and I, The consecrated ground, Where, calm beneath the holy cross, O'ershadowed by sweet skies, Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form, Those blue unclouded eyes. Around the soft, green swelling mound We scooped the earth away, And buried deep the crocus-bulbs Against a coming day.
In blue and yellow from its grave Springs up the crocus fair, And God shall raise those bright blue eyes, Those sunny waves of hair. Not for a fading summer's morn, Not for a fleeting hour, But for an endless age of bliss, Shall rise our heart's dear flower. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass, No time to see, in broad day light, Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at beauty's glance And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. Is it a mosaic Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught By patient labor any hue to take And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught, Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught With storied meaning for religion's sake.
Amy Lowell — Fragment Was ist Poesie? Ist sie ein Mosaik aus farbigen Steinen, die in ein ausgefallenes Muster verwoben sind? Wo man oft lange widerstand, Ein gutes Wort leicht Eingang fand. Johann Gottfried Herder Ob ich den Zwist entscheide? Wird noch die Frage seyn. Ich suche mich durch Beyde Im Stillen zu erfreu'n. Friedrich von Hagedorn The Competition My girl and my wine resolved to disentwine. How can I stand such pressure? It's time now to define: In secret I shall treasure them both - and both be mine: She gives me greater pleasure, but oft'ner does the wine!
Oder dass seine heiligen Reste seien versteckt Unter einer Pyramide, die sich zum Himmel hin reckt? Shakespeare What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones The labour of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument.
For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving, Dodt make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done. Francis William Bourdillon — British poet and translator. Then was loneliness to me Best and true society, But ah! Here all thy classic pleasures cease, Musing mild, and thoughtful peace; Here thou com'st in sullen mood, Not with thy fantastic brood Of magic shapes and visions airy Beckon'd from the land of Fairy: No poetic being here Strikes with airy sounds mine ear; No converse here to fancy cold With many a fleeting form I hold, Here all inelegant and rude Thy presence is, sweet Solitude.
Comment The Voice Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me, Saying that now you are not as you were When you had changed from the one who was all to me, But as at first, when our day was fair. Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then, Standing as when I drew near to the town Where you would wait for me: Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness Travelling across the wet mead to me here, You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness, Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward, Leaves around me falling, Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward, And the woman calling. Thomas Hardy — So reifen sie bei keiner Frau, so schimmernd aus dem Saum: Und dennoch bist du so allein wie nie und schaust mich kaum; das macht: Die Engel alle bangen so, lassen einander los: So kam ich und vollendete dir tausendeinen Traum.
Gott sah mich an; er blendete Du aber bist der Baum.
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