Oremus
by Amado Nervo (1870-1919)

Oremos por las nuevas generaciones,
abrumadas de tedios y decepciones;
con ellas en la noche nos hundiremos.
Oremos por los seres desventurados,
de moral impotencia contaminados…
¡Oremos!

Oremos por la turba que a cruel prüeba
sometida, se abate sobre la gleba;
galeote que agita siempre los remos
en el mar de la vida revuelto y hondo,
danaide que sustenta tonel sin fondo…
¡Oremos!

Oremos por los místicos, por los neuróticos
nostálgicos de sombra, de templos góticos
y de cristos llagados, que con supremos
desconsuelos recorren su ruta fiera,
levantando sus cruces como bandera.
¡Oremos!

Oremos por los que odian los ideales,
por los que van cegando los manantiales
de amor y de esperanza de que bebemos,
y derrocan al Cristo con saña impía,
y después lloran, viendo l’ara vacía.
¡Oremos!

Oremos por los sabios, por el enjambre
de artistas exquisitos que mueren de hambre.
¡Ay!, el pan del espíritu les debemos,
aprendimos por ellos a alzar las frentes,
y helos pobres, escuálidos, tristes, dolientes…
¡Oremos!

Oremos por las células de donde brotan
ideas-resplandores, y que se agotan
prodigando su savia: no las burlemos.
¿Qué fuera de nosotros sin su energía?
Oremos por el siglo, por su agonía
del Suicidio en las negras fauces…
¡Oremos!

Views: 43

See und Wasserfall
by Nikolaus Lenau (1802-1850)

Die Felsen schroff und wild,
Der See, die Waldumnachtung
Sind dir ein stilles Bild
Tiefsinniger Betrachtung.

Und dort, mit Donnerhall
Hineilend zwischen Steinen,
Läßt dir der Wasserfall
Die kühne Tat erscheinen.

Du sollst, gleich jenem Teich,
Betrachtend dich verschließen;
Dann kühn, dem Bache gleich,
Zur Tat hinunterschießen.

Views: 43

Meine Blume
by Johann Gottfried Herder (1744-1803)

   Sei gegrüßet, kleine Blume,
Blume der Vollkommenheit,
Die die Heiligen und Weisen
Namlos preisen;
Denn des Herzens schönste Zier
Wohnt in Dir.

   Nicht auf Höhn, im stillen Thale
Blühest Du, am frischen Quell,
Zeigst des weiten Himmels Bläue,
Reine Treue,
Und in ihr der Sonne Gold,
Mild und hold.

   Fragst Du mich, wie heißt die Blume,
Die den hohen Schmuck uns zeigt:
Sonnengluth und Himmelsbläue,
Lieb’ und Treue?
Nimm hier dies Vergißmeinnicht,
Treu’ und Licht.

Views: 52

The Argument of His Book
by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers,
Of April, May, of June and July-flowers;
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides and of their bridal cakes;
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris;
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white;
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The Court of Mab, and of the Fairy King;
I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.

Views: 38

Madam Life’s a Piece in Bloom
by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

Madam Life’s a piece in bloom
   Death goes dogging everywhere:
She’s the tenant of the room,
   He’s the ruffian on the stair.

   You shall see her as a friend,
You shall bilk him once or twice;
   But he’ll trap you in the end,
And he’ll stick you for her price.

With his kneebones at your chest,
    And his knuckles in your throat,
You would reason—plead—protest!
   Clutching at her petticoat;

   But she’s heard it all before,
Well she knows you’ve had your fun,
    Gingerly she gains the door,
And your little job is done.

Views: 37

L’Été
by Georges de Scudéry (1601-1667)

Environné de feux, et couvert de lumière,
Tu sors de l’Océan, Astre de l’Univers;
Et des premiers rayons, de ta clarté première,
Tu m’échauffes l’esprit, et m’inspires ces Vers.

Tu brilles de splendeur; tu brûles toutes choses;
Les Vallons les plus frais, en vain t’ont résisté
Tu fais languir les Lis; tu fais mourir les Roses;
Et la Neige est fondue, aux chaleurs de l’Été.

L’air est étincelant; la terre est desséchée;
La Palme la plus fière, a la tête penchée;
Le Laurier le plus vert, résiste vainement

Tout fume; tout périt; par la celeste flamme;
Mais la plus vive ardeur d’un tel embrasement,
M’incommode bien moins que celle de mon âme.

Views: 59

The Outsider
by Ruth Manning-Sanders (1886-1988)

Out in a night of cold and gloom
I spied a little firelit room;
I heard the flare of flickering flame,
Through the half-open door there came
A ruddy glow. “Step in,” cried I,
For here within ’tis warm and dry.
And why should my unwilling feet
Go plodding up the splashy street?”
So bold I went to enter, but
The door closed softly.

I peeped in at the window-pane
Bedrizzled o’er with falling rain;
Upon the hob the kettle spat.
The quiet forms of those who sat
Before the fire stirred not at all.
Their shadows dancing on the wall.
With nod and jerk and monstrous leap.
Made merry in a wild bo-peep.
“Good friends, pray let me in,” I cried.
“For I am comfortless outside.
Here in the mud and rain;” but no.
It was not of their company
That such as I could ever be.
Thought I to see their welcome? Lo,
The ruddy embers ceased to glow,
As though my breath had blown them out;
The kettle with its hissing spout,
And those that sat and those that played
Upon the wall alike did fade.
And into nothingness and night –
Fell swiftly.

So through the darkness on I went,
Weary and wet and discontent.

Views: 48

Lemon Pie
by Edgar Guest (1881-1959)

The world is full of gladness,
   There are joys of many kinds,
There’s a cure for every sadness,
   That each troubled mortal finds.
And my little cares grow lighter
   And I cease to fret and sigh,
And my eyes with joy grow brighter
   When she makes a lemon pie.

When the bronze is on the filling
   That’s one mass of shining gold,
And its molten joy is spilling
   On the plate, my heart grows bold
And the kids and I in chorus
   Raise one glad exultant cry
And we cheer the treat before us
   Which is mother’s lemon pie.

Then the little troubles vanish,
   And the sorrows disappear,
Then we find the grit to banish
   All the cares that hovered near,
And we smack our lips in pleasure
   O’er a joy no coin can buy,
And we down the golden treasure
   Which is known as lemon pie.

Views: 46

The Art of Poetry
by John Dryden (1631-1700)

A poem, where we all perfections find,
Is not the work of a fantastic mind;
There must be care, and time, and skill, and pains;
Not the first head of inexperienced brains.
Yet sometimes artless poets, when the rage
Of a warm fancy does their minds engage,
Puffed with vain pride, presume they understand,
And boldly take the trumpet in their hand:
Their fustian muse each accident confounds;
Nor can she fly, but rise by leaps and bounds,
Till, their small stock of learning quickly spent,
Their poem dies for want of nourishment.
In vain mankind the hot-brained fool decries,
No branding censures can unveil his eyes;
With impudence the laurel they invade,
Resolved to like the monsters they have made.
Virgil, compared to them, is flat and dry;
And Homer understood not poetry:
Against their merit if this age rebel,
To future times for justice they appeal.
But waiting till mankind shall do them right,
And bring their works triumphantly to light,
Neglected heaps we in bye-corners lay,
Where they become to worms and moths a prey.

Views: 50

On a Fly Drinking Out of His Cup
by William Oldys (1687-1761)

Busy, curious, thirsty fly!
Drink with me and drink as I:
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up:
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine
Hastening quick to their decline:
Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,
Though repeated to threescore.
Threescore summers, when they’re gone,
Will appear as short as one!

Views: 42