Mein Geburtshaus
by Rainer Maria Rilke (1873-1926)

Der Erinnrung ist das traute
Heim der Kindheit nicht entflohn,
wo ich Bilderbogen schaute
im blauseidenen Salon.

Wo ein Puppenkleid, mit Strähnen
dicken Silbers reich betreßt,
Glück mir war; wo heiße Tränen
mir das ‛Rechnen’ ausgepreßt.

Wo ich, einem dunklen Rufe
folgend, nach Gedichten griff,
und auf einer Fensterstufe
Tramway spielte oder Schiff.

Wo ein Mädchen stets mir winkte
drüben in dem Grafenhaus …
Der Palast, der damals blinkte,
sieht heut’ so verschlafen aus.

Und das blonde Kind, das lachte,
wenn der Knab’ ihm Küsse warf,
ist nun fort; fern ruht es sachte,
wo es nie mehr lächeln darf.

Views: 41

The Wind took up the Northern Things
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

The Wind took up the Northern Things
And piled them in the south —
Then gave the East unto the West
And opening his mouth

The four Divisions of the Earth
Did make as to devour
While everything to corners slunk
Behind the awful power —

The Wind — unto his Chambers went
And nature ventured out —
Her subjects scattered into place
Her systems ranged about

Again the smoke from Dwellings rose
The Day abroad was heard —
How intimate, a Tempest past
The Transport of the Bird —

Views: 31

The Portent (1859)
by Herman Melville (1819-1891)

Hanging from the beam,
      Slowly swaying (such the law),
Gaunt the shadow on your green,
      Shenandoah!
The cut is on the crown
      (Lo, John Brown),
And the stabs shall heal no more.

Hidden in the cap
      Is the anguish none can draw;
So your future veils its face,
      Shenandoah!
But the streaming beard is shown
      (Weird John Brown),
The meteor of the war.

Views: 31

Emmihez
by Vörösmarty Mihály (1800-1855)

Fogadd el, édes Emmim,
      Virágaim szebbikét:
Szerelmem ülteté ezt,
      Szerelmem ápolá.
Az ótta sok fagy ellen,
      Forró nap ellen is;
Az adta színe fényét,
      S az nyújtja most neked,
Neked! kit életemnél
      Hüvebben kedvelek.
O nézzed, szép ölében
      Egy gyenge könny remeg:
Az én könnyűm az, Emmi,
      S utánad sírtam ezt!

Views: 94

Then and Now
by John McCrae (1872-1918)

Beneath her window in the fragrant night
I half forget how truant years have flown
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
When all is still, as if the very trees
Were listening for the coming of her feet
That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
Sings some forgotten song of those old years
Until my heart grows far too glad for tears.

Views: 40

Sympathy
by William Ellery Channing (1818-1901)

To live content with small means.
To seek elegance rather than luxury,
      and refinement rather than fashion.
To be worthy not respectable,
      and wealthy not rich.
To study hard, think quietly, talk gently,
      act frankly, to listen to stars, birds, babes,
      and sages with open heart, to bear all cheerfully,
      do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never.
In a word, to let the spiritual,
      unbidden and unconscious,
      grow up through the common.
This is to be my symphony.

Views: 37

Introduction to The Songs of Innocence
by William Blake (1757-1827)

Piping down the valleys wild,
⁠Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
⁠And he, laughing, said to me:

‛Pipe a song about a Lamb!’
⁠So I piped with merry cheer.
‛Piper, pipe that song again;’
⁠So I piped: he wept to hear.

‛Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
⁠Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’
So I sang the same again,
⁠While he wept with joy to hear.

‛Piper, sit thee down and write
⁠In a book, that all may read.’
So he vanish’d from my sight.
⁠And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen.
⁠And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
⁠Every child may joy to hear.

Views: 52

Non Omnis Moriar (Odes, III, 30)
by Quintus Horatius Flaccus (“Horace”) (65-8 B.C.E.)

Exegi monumentum aere perennius
regalique situ pyramidum altius,
quod non imber edax, non Aquilo inpotens
possit diruere aut innumerabilis
annorum series et fuga temporum.
Non omnis moriar multaque pars mei
vitabit Libitinam; usque ego postera
crescam laude recens, dum Capitolium
scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex.
Dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus
et qua pauper aquae Daunus agrestium
regnavit populorum, ex humili potens
princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos
deduxisse modos. Sume superbiam
quaesitam meritis et mihi Delphica
lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, comam.

Views: 38

The Modern Patriot
by William Cowper (1731-1800)

Rebellion is my theme all day;
      I only wish ’twould come
(As who knows but perhaps it may?)
      A little nearer home.

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight
      On t’other side th’ Atlantic
I always held them in the right
      But most so when most frantic.

When lawless mobs insult the court,
      That man shall be my toast,
If breaking windows be the sport,
      Who bravely breaks the most.

But oh! for him my fancy culls
      The choicest flow’rs she bears,
Who constitutionally pulls
      Your house about your ears.

Such civil broils are my delight;
      Though some folks can’t endure ’em,
Who say the mob are mad outright,
      And that a rope must cure ’em.

A rope! I wish we patrioits had
      Such strings for all who need ’em –
What! hang a man for going mad?
      Then farewell British freedom.

Views: 38

Louse Hunting
by Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)

Nudes—stark and glistening,
Yelling in lurid glee. Grinning faces
And raging limbs
Whirl over the floor one fire.
For a shirt verminously busy
Yon soldier tore from his throat, with oaths
Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice.
And soon the shirt was aflare
Over the candle he’d lit while we lay.

Then we all sprang up and stript
To hunt the verminous brood.
Soon like a demons’ pantomime
The place was raging.
See the silhouettes agape,
See the gibbering shadows
Mixed with the battled arms on the wall.
See gargantuan hooked fingers
Pluck in supreme flesh
To smutch supreme littleness.
See the merry limbs in hot Highland fling
Because some wizard vermin
Charmed from the quiet this revel
When our ears were half lulled
By the dark music
Blown from Sleep’s trumpet.

Views: 36