The Soul and the Body
by John Davies (1569-1626)

But how shall we this union well express?
      Nought ties the soul; her subtlety is such,
She moves the body, which she doth possess,
      Yet no part toucheth, but by virtue’s touch.

Then dwells she not therein as in a tent;
      Nor as a pilot in his ship doth sit;
Nor as the spider in his web is pent;
      Nor as the wax retains the print in it;

Nor as a vessel water doth contain;
      Nor as one liquor in another shed;
Nor as the heat doth in the fire remain;
      Nor as a voice throughout the air is spread.

But as the fair and cheerful morning light
      Doth here and there her silver beams impart,
And in an instant doth herself unite
      To the transparent air, in all and part;

Still resting whole, when blows the air divide,
      Abiding pure, when the air is most corrupted,
Throughout the air her beams dispersing wide,
      And when the air is tossed, not interrupted:

So doth the piercing soul the body fill,
      Being all in all, and all in part diffused,
Indivisible, incorruptible still,
      Not forced, encountered, troubled or confused.

And as the sun above the light doth bring,
      Though we behold it in the air below,
So from the eternal Light the soul doth spring,
      Though in the body she her powers do show.

Views: 40

The Convergence of the Twain
(Lines on the loss of the “Titantic”)
by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

                  I
         In a solitude of the sea
         Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

                  II
         Steel chambers, late the pyres
         Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

                  III
         Over the mirrors meant
         To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls — grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

                  IV
         Jewels in joy designed
         To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

                  V
         Dim moon-eyed fishes near
         Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: “What does this vaingloriousness down here?” …

                  VI
         Well: while was fashioning
         This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

                  VII
         Prepared a sinister mate
         For her — so gaily great —
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

                  VIII
         And as the smart ship grew
         In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

                  IX
         Alien they seemed to be;
         No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,

                  X
         Or sign that they were bent
         By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,

                  XI
         Till the Spinner of the Years
         Said “Now!” And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

Views: 39

Mia Penso
by Ludwik Lejzer Zamenhof (1859-1917)

Sur la kampo, for de l’mondo,
Antaŭ nokto de somero
Amikino en la rondo
Kantas kanton pri l’espero.
Kaj pri vivo detruita
Ŝi rakontas kompatante, —
Mia vundo refrapita
Min doloras resangante.

“Ĉu vi dormas? Ho, sinjoro,
Kial tia senmoveco?
Ha, kredeble rememoro
El la kara infaneco?”
Kion diri? Ne ploranta
Povis esti parolado
Kun fraŭlino ripozanta
Post somera promenado!

Mia penso kaj turmento,
Kaj doloroj kaj esperoj!
Kiom de mi en silento
Al vi iris jam oferoj!
Kion havis mi plej karan —
La junecon — mi ploranta
Metis mem sur la altaron
De la devo ordonanta!

Fajron sentas mi interne,
Vivi ankaŭ mi deziras, —
Io pelas min eterne,
Se mi al gajuloj iras…
Se ne plaĉas al la sorto
Mia peno kaj laboro —
Venu tuj al mi la morto,
En espero — sen doloro!

Views: 36

A Death-Bed Adieu
by Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826)

Life’s visions are vanished, it’s dreams are no more.
Dear friends of my bosom, why bathed in tears?
I go to my fathers; I welcome the shore,
which crowns all my hopes, or which buries my cares.
Then farewell my dear, my lov’d daughter, Adieu!
The last pang in life is in parting from you.
Two Seraphs await me, long shrouded in death;
I will bear them your love on my last parting breath.

Views: 40

Morphine
by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)

Groß ist die Ähnlichkeit der beiden schönen
Jünglingsgestalten, ob der eine gleich
Viel blässer als der andre, auch viel strenger,
Fast möcht ich sagen viel vornehmer aussieht
Als jener andre, welcher mich vertraulich
In seine Arme schloß—Wie lieblich sanft
War dann sein Lächeln und sein Blick wie selig!
Dann mocht es wohl geschehn, daß seines Hauptes
Mohnblumenkranz auch meine Stirn berührte
Und seltsam duftend allen Schmerz verscheuchte
Aus meiner Seel—Doch solche Linderung,
Sie dauert kurze Zeit; genesen gänzlich
Kann ich nur dann, wenn seine Fackel senkt
Der andre Bruder, der so ernst und bleich.—
Gut ist der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich
Das beste wäre, nie geboren sein.

Views: 196

Spring
by Christopher Smart (1722-1771)

Now the winds are all composure,
   But the breath upon the bloom,
Blowing sweet o’er each inclosure
   Grateful off’rings of perfume.

Tansy, calaminth and daisies
   On the river’s margin thrive;
And accompany the mazes
   Of the stream that leaps alive.

Muse, accordant to the season,
   Give the numbers life and air;
When the sounds and objects reason
   In behalf of praise and pray’r.

All the scenes of nature quicken,
   By the genial spirit fann’d;
And the painted beauties thicken,
   Colour’d by the master’s hand.

Earth her vigour repossessing
   As the blasts are held in ward,
Blessing heap’d and press’d on blessing,
   Yield the measure of the Lord.

Beeches, without order seemly,
   Shade the flow’rs of annual birth,
And the lily smiles supremely,
   Mention’d by the Lord on earth.

Couslips seize upon the fallow,
   And the cardamine in white,
Where the corn-flow’rs join the mallow,
   Joy and health, and thrift unite.

Study sits beneath her arbour,
   By the bason’s glossy side;
While the boat from out its harbour
   Exercise and pleasure guide.

Pray’r and praise be mine employment,
   Without grudging or regret;
Lasting life, and long enjoyment
   Are not here, and are not yet.

Hark! aloud, the black-bird whistles,
   With surrounding fragrance blest,
And the goldfinch in the thistles
   Makes provision for her nest.

Ev’n the hornet hives his honey,
   Bluecap builds his stately dome,
And the rocks supply the coney
   With a fortress and an home.

Views: 46

The Garden of Proserpine
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

Here, where the world is quiet,
   Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
   In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
   A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
   And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter
   For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
   And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
   And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
   Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
   And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
   No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
   Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes,
Save this whereout she crushes
   For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
   In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
   All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
   Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
   He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
   Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
   In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
   Crowned with calm leaves she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
   With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
   From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
   She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
   The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
   And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
   The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
   And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
   Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,
   And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
   Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
   Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
   From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
   Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
   Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
   Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
   Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
   In an eternal night.

Views: 50

Hymne à la Beauté
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l’abîme,
O Beauté? Ton regard, infernal et divin,
Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime,
Et l’on peut pour cela te comparer au vin.

Tu contiens dans ton œil le couchant et l’aurore;
Tu répands des parfums comme un soir orageux;
Tes baisers sont un philtre et ta bouche une amphore
Qui font le héros lâche et l’enfant courageux.

Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?
Le Destin charmé suit tes jupons comme un chien;
Tu sèmes au hasard la joie et les désastres,
Et tu gouvernes tout et ne réponds de rien.

Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu te moques,
De tes bijoux l’Horreur n’est pas le moins charmant,
Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chères breloques,
Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement.

L’éphémère ébloui vole vers toi, chandelle,
Crépite, flambe et dit : Bénissons ce flambeau!
L’amoureux pantelant incliné sur sa belle
A l’air d’un moribond caressant son tombeau.

Que tu viennes du ciel ou de l’enfer, qu’importe,
O Beauté! monstre énorme, effrayant, ingénu!
Si ton œil, ton souris, ton pied, m’ouvrent la porte
D’un Infini que j’aime et n’ai jamais connu?

De Satan ou de Dieu, qu’importe? Ange ou Sirène,
Qu’importe, si tu rends, — fée aux yeux de velours,
Rythme, parfum, lueur, ô mon unique reine! —
L’univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds?

Views: 25

Κάκιωμα
by Dionysios Solomos (1798–1857)

Πλέον δὲν ἐρχομαι ‘ς τὸ βρέφος
Ὡραιότητες γεμᾶτο,
Σὰν τριαντάφυλλο δροσᾶτο,
Ὁποῦ ἀνοίγει αὐγερινό.

Ὄχι, πλέον δὲ θέλω νἄλθω,
Οὔτε ἄν ἔξαφνα ἀρχινήσῃ
Λυπηρὰ νὰ τραγουδήσῃ
Τὴ βοσκούλα ‘ς τὸ βουνό·

Οὔτε ἄν ψάλλοντας τὸ ἰδοῦνε
Τὸν πατέρα του νὰ δείξῃ,
Καὶ τὰ δάκρυα νὰ σφουγγίξῃ
Μὲ τὸ χέρι τὸ μικρό.

Μόνον ἄν τὸ πάρῃ ἡ μοῖρα.
Καὶ στενέψῃ ἐμὲ νὰ κλίνω,
Τότες ἔρχομαι καί δίνω
Ἕνα φίλημα κ’ ἐγώ.

Views: 24

We Are Seven
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

A simple child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be?”

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit—
I sit and sing to them.

“And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you then,” said I,
“If they two are in Heaven?”
The little Maiden did reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in Heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away: for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

Views: 40