Ancient Music
by Ezra Pound (1885-1972)

Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damm you; Sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, ’tis why I am, Goddamm,
So ‘gainst the winter’s balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm,
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

Views: 28

Death
by Emily Brontë (1818-1848)

Death! that struck when I was most confiding
         In my certain faith of joy to be—
Strike again, Time’s withered branch dividing
         From the fresh root of Eternity!

Leaves, upon Time’s branch, were growing brightly,
         Full of sap, and full of silver dew;
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
         Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.

Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;
         Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride;
But, within its parent’s kindly bosom,
         Flowed for ever Life’s restoring tide.

Little mourned I for the parted gladness,
         For the vacant nest and silent song—
Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness;
         Whispering, “Winter will not linger long!”

And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing,
         Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray;
Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing,
         Lavished glory on that second May!

High it rose—no winged grief could sweep it;
         Sin was scared to distance with its shine;
Love, and its own life, had power to keep it
         From all wrong—from every blight but thine!

Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish;
         Evening’s gentle air may still restore—
No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish—
         Time, for me, must never blossom more!

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish
         Where that perished sapling used to be;
Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish
         That from which it sprung—Eternity.

Views: 47

If All the Voices of Man
by Horace L. Traubel (1858-1919)

If all the voices of man called out warning you, and you could not join your voice with their voices,
If all the faces of men were turned one way and you met them face to face, you going another—
You still must not be persuaded to capitulation; you will remember that the road runs east as well as west.

Views: 121

Maud Muller
by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

Maud Muller, on a summer’s day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast—

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

“Thanks!” said the Judge, “a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.”

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleasant surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away,

Continue reading …

Views: 48

Mock Panegyric on a Young Friend
by Jane Austen (1775-1817)

In measured verse I’ll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna:
And, first, her mind is unconfined
Like any vast savannah.

Ontario’s lake may fitly speak
Her fancy’s ample bound:
Its circuit may, on strict survey
Five hundred miles be found.

Her wit descends on foes and friends
Like famed Niagara’s fall;
And travellers gaze in wild amaze,
And listen, one and all.

Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound,
Like transatlantic groves,
Dispenses aid, and friendly shade
To all that in it roves.

If thus her mind to be defined
America exhausts,
And all that’s grand in that great land
In similes it costs —

Oh how can I her person try
To image and portray?
How paint the face, the form how trace,
In which those virtues lay?

Another world must be unfurled,
Another language known,
Ere tongue or sound can publish round
Her charms of flesh and bone.

Views: 78

Ho, mia kor’
by Ludwik Łazarz Zamenhof (1869-1917)
because today is Zamanhof Day

Ho, mia kor’, ne batu maltrankvile,
El mia brusto nun ne saltu for!
Jam teni min ne povas mi facile,
Ho, mia kor’!

Ho, mia kor’! Post longa laborado
Ĉu mi ne venkos en decida hor’!
Sufiĉe! trankviliĝu de l’ batado,
Ho, mia kor’!

Views: 28