Encore un livre
by Jules Laforgue (1860-1887)
Encore un livre; ô nostalgies
Loin de ces très goujates gens,
Loin des saluts et des argents,
Loin de nos phraséologies!
Encore un de mes pierrots mort;
Mort d’un chronique orphelinisme;
C’était un cœur plein de dandysme
Lunaire, en un drôle de corps.
Les dieux s’en vont; plus que des hures;
Ah! ça devient tous les jours pis;
J’ai fait mon temps, je déguerpis
Vers l’Inclusive Sinécure!
Views: 0
On the Russian Persecution of the Jews
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)
O son of man, by lying tongues adored,
By slaughterous hands of slaves with feet red-shod
carnage deep as ever Christian trod
Profaned with prayer and sacrifice abhorred
And incense from the trembling tyrant’s horde,
Brute worshippers or wielders of the rod,
Most murderous even of all that call thee God,
Most treacherous even that ever called thee Lord;
Face loved of little children long ago,
Head hated of the priests and rulers then,
If thou see this, or hear these hounds of thine
Run ravening as the Gadarean swine,
Say, was not this thy Passion, to foreknow
In death’s worst hour the works of Christian men?
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The Maldive Shark
by Herman Melville (1819-1891)
About the Shark, phlegmatical one,
Pale sot of the Maldive sea,
The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim,
How alert in attendance be.
From his saw-pit of mouth, from his charnel of maw
They have nothing of harm to dread,
But liquidly glide on his ghastly flank
Or before his Gorgonian head;
Or lurk in the port of serrated teeth
In white triple tiers of glittering gates,
And there find a haven when peril’s abroad,
An asylum in jaws of the Fates!
They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey,
Yet never partake of the treat—
Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull,
Pale ravener of horrible meat.
Views: 3
Letters
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
Every day brings a ship,
Every ship brings a word;
Well for those who have no fear,
Looking seaward, well assured
That the word the vessel brings
Is the word they wish to hear.
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The Rhodora
(On Being Asked, Whence Is the Flower?)
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew;
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
Views: 9
Fannie
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907)
Fannie has the sweetest foot
Ever in a gaiter boot!
And the hoyden knows it,
And, of course, she shows it–
Not the knowledge, but the foot–
Yet with such a modest grace,
Never seems it out of place,
Ah, there are not many
Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
Or wickeder than Fannie.
Fannie has the blackest hair
Of any of the village girls;
It does not shower on her neck
In silken or coquettish curls.
It droops in folds around her brow,
As clouds, at night, around the moon,
Looped with lilies here and there,
In many a dangerous festoon.
And Fannie wears a gipsy hat,
Saucily-yes, all of that!
Ah, there are not many
Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
Or wickeder than Fannie.
Fannie wears an open dress–
Ah! the charming chemisette!
Half concealing, half revealing
Something far more charming yet.
Fannie draper her breast with lace,
As one would drape a costly vase
To keep away mischevious flies;
But lace can’t keep away one’s eyes,
For every time her bosom heaves,
Ah, it peepeth through it;
Yet Fannie looks the while as if
Never once she knew it.
Ah, there are not many
Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
Or innocent than Fannie.
Fannie lays her hand in mine;
Fannie speaks with naivete,
Fannie kisses me, she does!
In her own coquettish way.
Then softly speaks and deeply sighs,
With angels nestled in her eyes.
In the merrie month of May,
Fannie swears sincerely
She will be my own wife,
And love me dearly, dearly
Ever after all her life.
Ah, there are not many
Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
As my true-hearted Fannie.
Views: 5
Love and Death
by Lord Byron (1788-1824) (his last poem)
I watched thee when the foe was at our side,
Ready to strike at him—or thee and me.
Were safety hopeless—rather than divide
Aught with one loved save love and liberty:
I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock
Received our prow and all was storm and fear,
And bade thee cling to me through every shock;
This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier.
I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes,
Yielding my couch and stretched me on the ground,
When overworn with watching, ne’er to rise
From thence if thou an early grave hadst found.
The earthquake came, and rocked the quivering wall,
And men and nature reeled as if with wine.
Whom did I seek around the tottering hall?
For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine.
And when convulsive throes denied my breath
The faintest utterance to my fading thought,
To thee—to thee—e’en in the gasp of death
My spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought.
Thus much and more; and yet thou lov’st me not,
And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.
Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot
To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.
Views: 7
Ars Poetica
by Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982)
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—
A poem should not mean
But be.
Views: 6
Épilogue
by Albert Lozeau (1878-1924)
J’ai versé tout le sang de mon coeur dans mes vers.
Ma fatigue a laissé souvent la page blanche.
Ma vie intérieure en poèmes s’épanche
Aux rythmes variés des sentiments divers.
Sur ma profonde nuit mes yeux se sont ouverts;
J’ai dit ce que j’ai vu d’une voix simple et franche.
Si j’ai menti d’un mot douteux, je le retranche:
J’errais en des sentiers de ténèbres couverts.
Et maintenant, Seigneur, de ces heures passées
A traduire mon âme en strophes cadencées,
Me tiendrez-vous rigueur au jour du jugement?
Ai-je perdu le temps précieux de la vie?
Si je n’ai jamais su vous chanter autrement,
Votre gloire n’a-t-elle été par moi servie?
Views: 3
Maria
by Novalis (Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg) (1772-1801)
Ich sehe dich in tausend Bildern,
Maria, lieblich ausgedrückt,
Doch keins von allen kann dich schildern,
Wie meine Seele dich erblickt.
Ich weiß nur, daß der Welt Getümmel
Seitdem mir wie ein Traum verweht
Und ein unnennbar süßer Himmel
Mir ewig im Gemüte steht.
Views: 6