Poem of the day

Bridal Song
by John Fletcher (1579-1625)
For my nephew, Jimmy Montealegre, who’s getting married today

CYNTHIA, to thy power and thee
                  We obey.
Joy to this great company!
                  And no day
Come to steal this night away
      Till the rites of love are ended,
And the lusty bridegroom say,
      Welcome, light, of all befriended!

Pace out, you watery powers below;
                  Let your feet,
Like the galleys when they row,
                  Even beat;
Let your unknown measures, set
      To the still winds, tell to all
That gods are come, immortal, great,
      To honour this great nuptial!

Views: 29

Poem of the day

Kusslied
by Paul Fleming (1609-1640)

Nirgends hin als auf den Mund:
Da sinkt’s in des Herzens Grund;
Nicht zu frei, nicht zu gezwungen,
Nicht mit allzu trägen Zungen.

Nicht zu wenig, nicht zu viel:
Beides wird sonst Kinderspiel.
Nicht zu laut und nicht zu leise:
Nur im Mass ist rechte Weise.

Nicht zu hart und nicht zu weich,
Bald zugleich, bald nicht zugleich.
Nicht zu langsam, nicht zu schnelle,
Nicht stets auf die gleiche Stelle.

Halb gebissen, halb gehaucht,
Halb die Lippen eingetaucht,
Nicht ohn’ Unterschied der Zeiten,
Mehr allein denn vor den Leuten.

Küsse nun ein Jedermann,
Wie er weiss, will, soll und kann!
Ich nur und die Liebste wissen,
Wie wir uns recht sollen küssen.

Views: 23

Poem of the day

Death Is Nothing
De Rerum Natura, Book III, 830-842
by Titus Lucretisu Carus (c. 99 BCE-c. 55 BCE)

Nil igitur mors est ad nos neque pertinet hilum,
quandoquidem natura animi mortalis habetur.
et vel ut ante acto nihil tempore sensimus aegri,
ad confligendum venientibus undique Poenis,
omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu
horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris auris,
in dubioque fuere utrorum ad regna cadendum
omnibus humanis esset terraque marique,
sic, ubi non erimus, cum corporis atque animai
discidium fuerit, quibus e sumus uniter apti,
scilicet haud nobis quicquam, qui non erimus tum,
accidere omnino poterit sensumque movere,
non si terra mari miscebitur et mare caelo.

Views: 32

Poem of the day

Both because it’s Uz’s birthday and German Unity Day

Das bedrängte Deutschland
by Johann Peter Uz (1720-1796)

Wie lang zerfleischt mit schwerer Hand
Germanien sein Eingeweide?
Besiegt ein unbesiegtes Land
Sich selbst und seinen Ruhm, zu schlauer Feinde Freude?

Sind, wo die Donau, wo der Mayn
Voll fauler Leichen langsam fließet;
Wo um den rebenreichen Rhein
Sonst Bacchus fröhlich gieng, und sich die Elb’ ergießet:

Sind nicht die Spuren unsrer Wuth
Auf ieder Flur, an iedem Strande?
Wo strömte nicht das deutsche Blut?
Und nicht zu Deutschlands Ruhm: Nein! meistens ihm zur Schande!

Wem ist nicht Deutschland unterthan!
Es wimmelt stets von zwanzig Heeren:
Verwüstung zeichnet ihre Bahn;
Und was die Armuth spart, hilft Uebermuth verzehren.

Vor ihnen her entflieht die Lust;
Und in den Büschen öder Auen,
Wo vormals an geliebter Brust
Der satte Landmann sang, herrscht Einsamkeit und Grauen.

Der Adler sieht entschlafen zu,
Und bleibt bey ganzer Länder Schreyen
Stets unerzürnt in träger Ruh,
Entwaffnet und gezähmt von falschen Schmeicheleyen.

O Schande! sind wir euch verwandt,
Ihr Deutschen jener bessern Zeiten,
Die feiger Knechtschaft eisern Band
Mehr, als den härtsten Tod im Arm der Freyheit scheuten?

Wir, die uns kranker Wollust weihn,
Geschwächt vom Gifte weicher Sitten;
Wir wollen deren Enkel seyn,
Die, rauh, doch furchtbarfrey, für ihre Wälder stritten?

Die Wälder, wo ihr Ruhm noch izt
Um die bemoosten Eichen schwebet,
Wo, als ihr Stahl vereint geblitzt,
Ihr ehrner Arm gesiegt und Latium gebebet?

Wir schlafen, da die Zwietracht wacht,
Und ihre bleiche Fackel schwinget,
Und, seit sie uns den Krieg gebracht,
Ihm stets zur Seite schleicht, von Furien umringet.

Ihr Natternheer zischt uns ums Ohr,
Die deutschen Herzen zu vergiften;
Und wird, kommt ihr kein Hermann vor,
An Hermanns Vaterland ein schmählig Denkmaal stiften.

Doch mein Gesang wagt allzuviel!
O Muse! fleuch zu diesen Zeiten
Alkäens kriegrisch Saitenspiel,
Das die Tyrannen schalt, und scherz auf sanftern Saiten.

Views: 29

Poem of the day

In the Carolinas
by Wallace Stevens (1877-1955)

The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.
Already the butterflies flutter above the cabins.
Already the new-born children interpret love
In the voices of mothers.
Timeless mother,
How is it that your aspic nipples
For once vent honey?

The pine-tree sweetens my body,
The white iris beautifies me.

Views: 26

Poem of the day

Song Tournament: New Style
by Louis Untermeyer (1885-1977)

Rain, said the first, as it falls in Venice
Is like the dropping of golden pennies
Into a sea as smooth and bright
As a bowl of curdled malachite.

Storm, sang the next, in the streets of Peking
Is like the ghost of a yellow sea-king,
Scooping the dust to find if he may
Discover what earth has hidden away.

The mist, sighed the third, that lies on London
Is the wraith of Beauty, betrayed and undone
By a world of dark machines that plan
To splinter the shaken soul of man.

The rush of Spring, smiled the fourth, in Florence
Is wave upon wave of laughing torrents,
A flood of birds, a water-voiced calling,
A green rain rising instead of falling.

The wind, cried the fifth, in the Bay of Naples
Is a quarrel of leaves among the maples,
A war of sunbeams idly fanned,
A whisper softer than sand on sand.

Then spoke the last: God’s endless tears,
Too great for Heaven, anoint the spheres,
While every drop becomes a well
In the fathomless, thirsting heart of Hell.

And thus six bards, who could boast of travel
Fifty miles from their native gravel,
Rose in the sunlight and offered their stanzas
At the shrine of the Poetry Contest in Kansas.

Views: 49

Poem of the day

Chorus Sacerdotum
by Fulke Greville (1554-1628)

O wearisome condition of humanity!
Born under one law, to another bound;
Vainly begot and yet forbidden vanity;
Created sick, commanded to be sound.
What meaneth nature by these diverse laws?
Passion and reason, self-division cause.
Is it the mark or majesty of power
To make offenses that it may forgive?
Nature herself doth her own self deflower
To hate those errors she herself doth give.
For how should man think that he may not do,
If nature did not fail and punish, too?
Tyrant to others, to herself unjust,
Only commands things difficult and hard,
Forbids us all things which it knows is lust,
Makes easy pains, unpossible reward.
If nature did not take delight in blood,
She would have made more easy ways to good.
We that are bound by vows and by promotion,
With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites,
To teach belief in good and still devotion,
To preach of heaven’s wonders and delights;
Yet when each of us in his own heart looks
He finds the God there, far unlike his books.

Views: 53

Poem of the day

    Ode on Indolence
    by John Keats (1795-1821)

    “They toil not, neither do they spin.”

                                  I
    One morn before me were three figures seen,
          With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
    And one behind the other stepp’d serene,
          In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
    They pass’d, like figures on a marble urn
          When shifted round, to see the other side;
                They came again; as when the urn once more
    Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
          And they were strange to me, as may betide
                With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

                                  II
    How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
          How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
    Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
          To steal away, and leave without a task
    My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
          The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
                Benumb’d my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
    Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s wreath no flower:
          O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
                Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?

                                  III
    A third time pass’d they by, and, passing, turn’d
          Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
    Then faded, and to follow them I burn’d
          And ach’d for wings because I knew the three;
    The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;
          The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
                And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
    The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
          Is heap’d upon her, maiden most unmeek,—
                I knew to be my demon Poesy.

                                  IV
    They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
          O folly! What is Love! and where is it?
    And for that poor Ambition! it springs
          From a man’s little heart’s short fever-fit;
    For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,—
          At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons,
                And evenings steep’d in honied indolence;
    O, for an age so shelter’d from annoy,
          That I may never know how change the moons,
                Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!

                                  V
    And once more came they by:—alas! wherefore?
          My sleep had been embroider’d with dim dreams;
    My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er
          With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
    The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
          Tho’ in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
                The open casement press’d a new-leaved vine,
          Let in the budding warmth and throstle’s lay;
    O Shadows! ’twas a time to bid farewell!
                Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.

                                  VI
    So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
          My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
    For I would not be dieted with praise,
          A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!
    Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more
                In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;
          Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
    And for the day faint visions there is store;
          Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright,
                Into the clouds, and never more return!

    Views: 57

Poem of the day

Past and Present
by Francis Turner Palgrave (1824-1897)

As I hear the breath of the mother
      To the breath of the child at her feet
Answer in even whispers,
      When night falls heavy and sweet:

Sleep puts out silent fingers,
      And leads me back to the roar
Of the dead salt sea that vomits
      Wrecks of the past ashore.

I see the lost Love in beauty
      Go gliding over the main:
I feel the ancient sweetness,
      The worm and the wormwood again.

Earth all one tomb lies round me,
      Domed with an iron sky:
And God Himself in His power,
      God cannot save me!
I cry.

With the cry I wake;—and around me
      The mother and child at her feet
Breathe peace in even whispers;
      And the night falls heavy and sweet.

Views: 54

Poem of the day

Which
by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson (1861-1933)

We ask that Love shall rise to the divine,
And yet we crave him very human, too;
Our hearts would drain the crimson of his wine,
Our souls despise him if he prove untrue!
Poor Love! I hardly see what you can do!
We know all human things are weak and frail,
And yet we claim that very part of you,
Then, inconsistent, blame you if you fail.
When you would soar, ’tis we who clip your wings,
Although we weep because you faint and fall.
Alas! it seems we want so many things,
That no dear love could ever grant them all!
Which shall we choose, the human or divine,
The crystal stream, or yet the crimson wine?

Views: 67