Léon Bloy
by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)

Le Dogme certes, et la Loi,
Mais Cliarité qui ne commence
Ni ne finit, énorme, immense,
Telle est la foi de Léon Bloy.

Un Abel mais un saint Éloi:
Enclume et marteau sans clémence,
La raison jusqu’à la démence,
Telle est la foi de Léon Bloy.

Une tête féroce et douce,
Très extraordiuairement
Un peu va comme je te pousse;

Un génie horrible et charmant,
Et tout l’être et tout le paraître
D’un mauvais moine et d’un bon prêtre.

Views: 20

Before the Mirror
(Verses Written Under a Picture)
Inscribed to J.A. Whistler
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

                  I.
White rose in red rose-garden
      Is not so white;
Snowdrops that plead for pardon
      And pine for fright
Because the hard East blows
Over their maiden rows
      Grow not as this face grows from pale to bright.

Behind the veil, forbidden,
      Shut up from sight,
Love, is there sorrow hidden,
      Is there delight?
Is joy thy dower or grief,
White rose of weary leaf,
      Late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light?

Soft snows that hard winds harden
      Till each flake bite
Fill all the flowerless garden
      Whose flowers took flight
Long since when summer ceased,
And men rose up from feast,
      And warm west wind grew east, and warm day night.

                  II.
“Come snow, come wind or thunder
      High up in air,
I watch my face, and wonder
      At my bright hair;
Nought else exalts or grieves
The rose at heart, that heaves
      With love of her own leaves and lips that pair.

“She knows not loves that kissed her
      She knows not where.
Art thou the ghost, my sister,
      White sister there,
Am I the ghost, who knows?
My hand, a fallen rose,
      Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.

“I cannot see what pleasures
      Or what pains were;
What pale new loves and treasures
      New years will bear;
What beam will fall, what shower,
What grief or joy for dower;
      But one thing knows the flower; the flower is fair.”

                  III.
Glad, but not flushed with gladness,
      Since joys go by;
Sad, but not bent with sadness,
      Since sorrows die;
Deep in the gleaming glass
She sees all past things pass,
      And all sweet life that was lie down and lie.

There glowing ghosts of flowers
      Draw down, draw nigh;
And wings of swift spent hours
      Take flight and fly;
She sees by formless gleams,
She hears across cold streams,
      Dead mouths of many dreams that sing and sigh.

Face fallen and white throat lifted,
      With sleepless eye
She sees old loves that drifted,
      She knew not why,
Old loves and faded fears
Float down a stream that hears
      The flowing of all men’s tears beneath the sky.

Views: 24

Von der Freude
by Johann Nikolaus Götz (1721-1781)

Sage, sprach ich, holde Freude!
Sage doch, was fliehst du so?
Hat man dich, so fliehst du wieder!
Niemals wird man deiner froh.

Danke, sprach sie, dem Verhängnis!
Alle Götter lieben mich;
Wenn ich ohne Flügel wäre,
Sie behielten mich für sich.

Views: 21

The Poplar
by Richard Aldington (1892-1962)

Why do you always stand there shivering
Between the white stream and the road?

The people pass through the dust
On bicycles, in carts, in motor-cars;
The waggoners go by at dawn;
The lovers walk on the grass path at night.

Stir from your roots, walk, poplar!
You are more beautiful than they are.

I know that the white wind loves you,
Is always kissing you and turning up
The white lining of your green petticoat.
The sky darts through you like blue rain,
And the grey rain drips on your flanks
And loves you.
And I have seen the moon
Slip his silver penny into your pocket
As you straightened your hair;
And the white mist curling and hesitating
Like a bashful lover about your knees.

I know you, poplar;
I have watched you since I was ten.
But if you had a little real love,
A little strength,
You would leave your nonchalant idle lovers
And go walking down the white road
Behind the waggoners.

There are beautiful beeches
Down beyond the hill.
Will you always stand there shivering?

Views: 22

Ode
by Joseph Addison (1672-1719)

The spacious Firmament on high,
With all the blue Ethereal Sky,
And spangled Heav’ns, a shining Frame,
Their great Original proclaim:
Th’unweary’d Sun from Day to Day
Does his Creator’s Power display,
And publishes, to every Land,
The Work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the Evening Shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous Tale,
And nightly to the listning Earth
Repeats the Story of her Birth:
Whilst all the Stars that round her burn,
And all the Planets, in their turn,
Confirm the Tidings as they rowl,
And spread the Truth from Pole to Pole.

What though, in solemn Silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial Ball?
What tho’ nor real Voice nor Sound
Amid their radiant Orbs be found?
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious Voice,
For ever singing, as they shine,
‛The Hand that made us is divine.’

Views: 27

A Little Learning
by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
from An Essay on Criticism

A little Learning is a dang’rous Thing;
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring:
 There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain,
 And drinking largely sobers us again.
 Fir’d at first Sight with what the Muse imparts,
 In fearless Youth we tempt the Heights of Arts,
 While from the bounded Level of our Mind,
 Short Views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
 But more advanc’d, behold with strange Surprize
 New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise!
 So pleas’d at first, the towring Alps we try,
 Mount o’er the Vales, and seem to tread the Sky;
 Th’ Eternal Snows appear already past,
 And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the last:
 But those attain’d, we tremble to survey
 The growing Labours of the lengthen’d Way,
 Th’ increasing Prospect tires our wandering Eyes,
 Hills peep o’er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

Views: 35

A Song from Shakespeare’s Cymbeline
by William Collins (1721-1759)

To fair FIDELE’S grassy Tomb
      Soft Maids and Village Hinds shall bring
Each op’ning Sweet, of earliest Bloom,
      And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing Ghost shall dare appear,
      To vex with Shrieks this quiet Grove;
But Shepherd Lads assemble here,
      And melting Virgins own their Love.

No wither’d Witch shall here be seen,
      No Goblins lead their Nightly crew:
The Female Fays shall haunt the green,
      And dress thy Grave with pearly Dew!

The Redbreast oft at Ev’ning Hours
      Shall kindly lend his little Aid:
With hoary Moss, and gather’d Flow’rs,
      To deck the Ground where thou art laid.

When howling Winds, and beating Rain,
      In Tempests shake the sylvan Cell:
Or midst the Chace on ev’ry Plain,
      The tender Thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely Scene shall thee restore,
      For thee the Tear be duly shed:
Belov’d, till Life could charm no more;
      And mourn’d, till Pity’s self be dead.

Views: 34

Address to the Moon
by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864)

How sweet the silver Moon’s pale ray,
Falls trembling on the distant bay,
O’er which the breezes sigh no more,
Nor billows lash the sounding shore.
Say, do the eyes of those I love,
Behold thee as thou soar’st above,
Lonely, majestic and serene,
The calm and placid evening’s Queen?
Say, if upon thy peaceful breast,
Departed spirits find their rest,
For who would wish a fairer home,
Than in that bright, refulgent dome?

Views: 28

When the Cuckoo Sings
by William Henry Davies (1871-1940)

In summer, when the Cuckoo sings,
   And clouds like greater moons can shine;
When every leafy tree doth hold
   A loving heart that beats with mine:
Now, when the Brook has cresses green,
   As well as stones, to check his pace;
And, if the Owl appears, he’s forced
   By small birds to some hiding-place:
Then, like red Robin in the spring,
   I shun those haunts where men are found;
My house holds little joy until
   Leaves fall and birds can make no sound;
Let none invade that wilderness
   Into whose dark green depths I go—
Save some fine lady, all in white,
   Comes like a pillar of pure snow.

Views: 41

Edone
by Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock (1724-1803)

Dein süßes Bild, Edone,
Schwebt stets vor meinem Blick;
Allein ihn trüben Zähren,
Daß du es selbst nicht bist.

Ich seh’ es, wenn der Abend
Mir dämmert; wenn der Mond
Mir glänzt, seh’ ich’s, und weine,
Daß du es selbst nicht bist.

Bei jenes Tales Blumen,
Die ich ihr lesen will,
Bei jenen Myrtenzweigen,
Die ich ihr flechten will,

Beschwör’ ich dich, Erscheinung,
Auf, und verwandle dich!
Verwandle dich, Erscheinung,
Und werd’ Edone selbst!

Views: 31