I May, I Might, I Must
by Marianne Moore (1887-1972)

If you will tell me why the fen
appears impassable, I then
will tell you why I think that I
can get across it if I try.

Views: 42

Je ne suis pas Seul
by Paul Éluard (1893-152)

Chargée
De fruits légers aux lèvres
Parée
De mille fleurs variées
Glorieuse
Dans les bras du soleil
Heureuse
D’un oiseau familier
Ravie
D’une goutte de pluie
Plus belle
Que le ciel du matin
Fidèle

Je parle d’un jardin
Je rêve

Mais j’aime justement.

Views: 33

Wishes
by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

Go, little book, and wish to all
Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall,
A bin of wine, a spice of wit,
A house with lawns enclosing it,
A living river by the door,
A nightingale in the sycamore!

Views: 40

The Outlaw’s Song
by Joanna Baillie (1760-1851)

The chough and crow to roost are gone,
      The owl sits on the tree,
The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,
      Like infant charity.
The wild-fire dances on the fen,
      The red star sheds its ray;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
      It is our op’ning day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
      And closed is every flower,
And winking tapers faintly peep
      High from my lady’s bower;
Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken
      Shrink on their murky way;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
      It is our op’ning day.

Nor board nor garner own we now,
      Nor roof nor latched door,
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow
      To bless a good man’s store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
      And night is grown our day;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
      And use it as ye may.

Views: 44

Los heraldos negros
by César Valleyo (1892-1938)

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes… ¡Yo no sé!
Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos,
la resaca de todo lo sufrido
se empozara en el alma… ¡Yo no sé!

Son pocos; pero son… Abren zanjas oscuras
en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte.
Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros Atilas;
o los heraldos negros que nos manda la muerte.

Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma,
de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema.
Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones
de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.

Y el hombre… ¡Pobre… pobre!. Vuelve los ojos, como
cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada;
vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido
se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes… ¡Yo no sé!

Views: 34

The Hair-Tonic Bottle
by Benjamin Franklin King, Jr. (1857-1894)

How dear to my heart is the old village drugstore,
      When tired and thirsty it comes to my view.
The wide-spreading sign that asks you to “Try it,”
      Vim, Vaseline, Vermifuge, Hop Bitters, too.
The old rusty stove and the cuspidor by it,
      That little back room. Oh! you’ve been there yourself,
And ofttimes have gone for the doctor’s prescription,
      But tackled the bottle that stood on the shelf.
                  The friendly old bottle,
                  The plain-labeled bottle,
The “Hair-Tonic” bottle that stood on the shelf.

How oft have I seized it with hands that were glowing,
      And guzzled awhile ere I set off for home;
I owned the whole earth all that night, but next morning
      My head felt as big as the Capitol’s dome.
And then how I hurried away to receive it,
      The druggist would smile o’er his poisonous pelf,
And laugh as he poured out his unlicensed bitters,
      And filled up the bottle that stood on the shelf.
                   The unlicensed bottle,
                   The plain-labeled bottle,
That “Hair-Tonic” bottle that stood on the shelf.

Views: 50