Song of Quietness
by Robinson Jeffers (1887-1961)

Drink deep, drink deep of quietness,
      And on the margins of the sea
Remember not thine old distress
      Nor all the miseries to be.
Calmer than mists, and cold
As they, that fold on fold
Up the dim valley are rolled,
      Learn thou to be.

The Past—it was a feverish dream,
      A drunken slumber full of tears.
The Future—O what wild wings gleam,
      Wheeled in the van of desperate years!
Thou lovedst the evening: dawn
Glimmers; the night is gone:—
What dangers lure thee on,
      What dreams more fierce?

But meanwhile, now the east is gray,
      The hour is pale, the cocks yet dumb,
Be glad before the birth of day,
      Take thy brief rest ere morning come:
Here in the beautiful woods
All night the sea-mist floods,—
Thy last of solitudes,
      Thy yearlong home.

Views: 305

“When I watch the living meet”
by A.E. Houseman (1859-1936)

When I watch the living meet,
And the moving pageant file
Warm and breathing through the street
Where I lodge a little while,

If the heats of hate and lust
In the house of flesh are strong,
Let me mind the house of dust
Where my sojourn shall be long.

In the nation that is not
Nothing stands that stood before;
There revenges are forgot,
And the hater hates no more;

Lovers lying two and two
Ask not whom they sleep beside,
And the bridegroom all night through
Never turns him to the bride.

Views: 20

Présentation de Paris à Notre Dame
by Charles Péguy (1873-1914)

Étoile de la mer voici la lourde nef
Où nous ramons tout nuds sous vos commandements
Voici notre détresse et nos désarmements;
Voici le quai du Louvre, et l’écluse, et le bief.

Voici notre appareil et voici notre chef.
C’est un gars de chez nous qui siffle par moments.
Il n’a pas son pareil pour les gouvernements.
Il a la tête dure et le geste un peu bref.

Reine qui vous levez sur tous les océans,
Vous penserez à nous quand nous serons au large.
Aujourd’hui c’est le jour d’embarquer notre charge.
Voici l’énorme grue et les longs meuglements.

S’il fallait le charger de nos pauvres vertus,
Ce vaisseau s’en irait vers votre auguste seuil
Plus creux que la noisette après que l’écureuil
L’a laissé retomber de ses ongles pointus.

Nuls ballots n’entreraient par les panneaux béants,
Et nous arriverions dans la mer de sargasse
Traînant cette inutile et grotesque carcasse
Et les Anglais diraient: Ils n’ont rien mis dedans.

Mais nous saurons l’emplir et nous vous le jurons.
Il sera le plus beau dans cet illustre port.
La cargaison ira jusque sur le plat-bord.
Et quand il sera plein nous le couronnerons.

Nous n’y chargerons pas notre pauvre maïs,
Mais de l’or et du blé que nous emporterons.
Et il tiendra la mer: car nous le chargerons
Du poids de nos péchés payés par votre fils.

Views: 18

Soup
by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)

I saw a famous man eating soup.
I say he was lifting a fat broth
Into his mouth with a spoon.
His name was in the newspapers that day
Spelled out in tall black headlines
And thousands of people were talking about him.

      When I saw him,
He sat bending his head over a plate
Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.

Views: 32

An Elegy on Winter in Argyleshire
by Charles Thompson Jr. (1807-1883)

With cheerless gloom and storm-portending clouds
Rude Winter brushes from Antarctic wilds,
The front of Heav’n, in murky vapours shrouds,
Then bursts his sounding freightage o’er our isles.
No more are heard the thrush’s mellow notes,
No more the plover mounts the ev’ning breeze,
No more the soaring lark on ether floats,
Spoil’d of their honours, mourn the leafless trees.
The front of Heav’n, erewhile so bright and gay,
Now scowls on Nature’s universal scene,
And shatt’ring hail, and howling tempests play,
Where wav’d one nodding canopy of green.
No more the brook, in rippling murmurs, glides,
And, with its silver tinkling, soothes the ear,
Nor Wollondilly, smile thy gentle tides,
But swoll’n to torrents, toward ocean bear.’
Thus ’plain’d I, while, by Wollondilly’s stream,
With ling’ring step, I sought my devious way,
A little naiad marked my plaintive theme,
And thus, in chiding numbers, seemed to say:—
‘Why, mortal, mourn’st thou nature’s beauties gone?
Why hang desponding strains upon thy tongue?
Repine not! for a little season flown,
Renewed in loveliness they’ll rise ere long.
When howling Winter’s stormy course is run,
When his chill blasts to northern climes are driven,
Then shall Spring’s blooming bosom greet the Sun,
And joy shine forth from bounty-beaming Heaven.’
Thus sung the nymph, when, from the pebbly bed
O’er which the bubbling stream delights to play,
Adown its maze her airy image fled,
On the bleak gale her accents died away.
As round the earth the changeful seasons roll,
Before the vernal Sun dark vapours fly;
So, from the dust, mounts the aspiring soul
To join her kindred spirits in the sky.

Views: 30

“I don’t like you”
by Marcus Valerius Martialis (Martial) (1st cent. CE)

Non amo te, Sabide, nec possum dicere quare.
      Hoc tantum possum dicere: non amo te.

Views: 34