Break of Day in the Trenches
by Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)

The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet’s poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver—what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe—
Just a little white with the dust.

Views: 61

A un Navío Destrozado
by Juan de Jáuregui (1583-1641)

Este bajel inútil, seco y roto,
tan despreciado ya del agua y viento,
vio indiferente el vasto movimiento
del proceloso mar, del Euro y Noto.

Soberbio al golfo, humilde a su piloto,
y del rico metal siempre sediento,
trajo sus minas al ibero asiento,
habidas en el índice remoto.

Ausente yace de la selva cara,
do el verde ornato conservar pudiera,
mejor que pudo cargas de tesoro.

Así quien sigue la codicia avara,
tal vez mezquino muere en extranjera
provincia, falto de consuelo y oro.

Views: 113

Rondeau: “Au bon vielx temps”
by Clément Marot (1496-1544)

Au bon vieulx temps un train d’amour regnoit,
Qui sans grand art, et dons se demenoit,
Si qu’un bouquet donné d’amour profonde,
S’estoit donné tout la Terre ronde,
Car seulement au cueur on se prenoit.

Et si par cas à jouyr on venoit,
Sçavez vous bien comme on s’entretenoit?
Vingt ans, trente ans: cela duroit ung Monde
         Au bon vieulx temps.

Or est perdu ce qu’amour ordonnoit,
Rien que pleurs feincts, rien que changes on n’oyt,
Qui vouldra donc qu’à aymer je me fonde,
Il fault premier que l’amour on refonde,
Et qu’on la meine ainsi, qu’on la menoit
         Au bon vieulx temps.

Views: 35

Two Lovers
by George Eliot (1819-1880)

Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:
   They leaned soft cheeks together there,
   Mingled the dark and sunny hair,
And heard the wooing thrushes sing.
               O budding time!
               O love’s blest prime!

Two wedded from the portal stept:
   The bells made happy carolings,
   The air was soft as fanning wings,
White petals on the pathway slept.
               O pure-eyed bride!
               O tender pride!

Two faces o’er a cradle bent:
   Two hands above the head were locked:
   These pressed each other while they rocked,
Those watched a life that love had sent.
               O solemn hour!
               O hidden power!

Two parents by the evening fire:
The red light fell about their knees
On heads that rose by slow degrees
Like buds upon the lily spire.
               O patient life!
               O tender strife!

The two still sat together there,
   The red light shone about their knees;
   But all the heads by slow degrees
Had gone and left that lonely pair.
               O voyage fast!
               O vanished past!

The red light shone upon the floor
   And made the space between them wide;
   They drew their chairs up side by side,
Their pale cheeks joined, and said, “Once more!”
               O memories!
               O past that is!

Views: 29

Le Temple de l’Amitié
by François-Marie Arouet (a.k.a. Voltaire) (1694-1778)

Au fond d’un bois à la paix consacré,
Séjour heureux, de la cour ignoré,
S’élève un temple, où l’art et ses prestiges
N’étalent point l’orgueil de leurs prodiges,
Où rien ne trompe et n’éblouit les yeux,
Où tout est vrai, simple, et fait pour les dieux.
De bons Gaulois de leurs mains le fondèrent;
A l’Amitié leurs cœurs le dédièrent.
Las! ils pensaient, dans leur crédulité,
Que par leur race il serait fréquenté.
En vieux langage on voit sur la façade
Les noms sacrés d’Oreste et de Pylade,
Le médaillon du bon Piritbous,
Du sage Acliate et du tendre Nisus,
Tous grands héros, tous amis véritables:
Ces noms sont beaux, mais ils sont dans les fables.
Les doctes sœurs ne chantent qu’en ces lieux.
Car on les siffle au superbe empyrée.
On n’y voit point Mars et sa Cythérée,
Car la discorde est toujours avec eux:
L’Amitié vit avec très-peu de dieux.
A ses côtés sa fidèle interprète,
La Vérité, charitable et discrète,
Toujours utile à qui veut l’écouter,
Attend en vain qu’on l’ose consulter:
Nul ne l’approche, et chacun la regrette.
Par contenance un livre est dans ses mains,
Où sont écrits les bienfaits des humains.
Doux monuments d’estime et de tendresse,
Donnés sans faste, acceptés sans bassesse.

Views: 26

Mynstrelles Songe
by Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770)

O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Black hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote,
O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered delle belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hondes I’lle dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres,
Heere mie boddie stylle schall bee.
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.
         Mie love ys dedde,
         Gon to hys death-bedde,
         Al under the wyllowe tree.

Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

Views: 40

Sonnet
by Robert Sidney (1563-1626)

Who gives himself may ill his words deny.
My words gave me to you, my words I gave
Still to be yours; you speech and speaker have:
Me to my words, my words to you I tie.Long ere I was, I was by destiny
Unto your love ordained, a free bound slave—
Destiny which me to my own choice drave
And to my ends made me my will apply.

For ere on earth in you true beauty came,
My first breath I had drawn, upon the day
Sacred to you, blessèd in your fair name,
And all the days and hours I since do spend
Are but the fatal, wishèd time to slay
To seal the bands of service without end.

Views: 30

Tempora Mutantur
by W.S. Gilbert (1836-1911)

Letters, letters, letters, letters,
   Some that please and some that bore,
Some that threaten prison fetters
(Metaphorically, fetters,
Such as bind insolvent debtors)—
   Invitations by the score.

One from COGSON, WILES, and RAILER,
   My attorneys, off the Strand,
One from COPPERBLOCK, my tailor—
My unreasonable tailor—
   One in FLAGG’S disgusting hand.

One from EPHRAIM and MOSES,
   Wanting coin without a doubt,
I should like to pull their noses—
Their uncompromising noses;
One from ALICE with the roses,
   Ah, I know what that’s about!

Time was when I waited, waited,
   For the missives that she wrote.
Humble postmen execrated—
Loudly, deeply execrated—
When I heard I wasn’t fated
   To be gladdened with a note.

Time was when I’d not have bartered
   Of her little pen a dip
For a peerage duly gartered—
For a peerage starred and gartered—
With a palace-office chartered—
   Or a Secretaryship!

But the time for that is over,
   And I wish we’d never met.
I’m afraid I’ve proved a rover—
I’m afraid a heartless rover—
Quarters in a place like Dover
   Tend to make a man forget.

Now I can accord precedence
   To my tailor, for I do
Want to know if he gives credence—
An unwarrantable credence—
   To my proffered I O U!

Bills for carriages and horses,
   Bills for wine and light cigar,
Matters that concern the Forces—
News that may affect the Forces—
News affecting my resources,
   Now unquestioned take the pas.

And the tiny little paper,
   With the words that seem to run
From her little fingers taper
(They are very small and taper),
By the tailor and the draper
   Are in interest outdone!

And unopened it’s remaining!
   I can read her gentle hope—
Her entreaties, uncomplaining
(She was always uncomplaining)—
Her devotion never waning—
   Through the little envelope!

Views: 42

Norse Lullaby
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

The sky is dark and the hills are white
      As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
      “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;”
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
      “Sleep, little one, sleep.”

On yonder mountain-side a vine
Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
The tree bends over the trembling thing,
And only the vine can hear her sing:
      “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep—
What shall you fear when I am here?
      Sleep, little one, sleep.”

The king may sing in his bitter flight,
The pine may croon to the vine to-night,
But the little snowflake at my breast
Liketh the song I sing the best—
      “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;
Weary thou art, anext my heart;
      Sleep, little one, sleep.”

Views: 32

Dalabóndinn í óþurrknum
by Jónas Hallgrímsson (1807-1845)

Hví svo þrúðgu þú
þokuhlassi
súldanorn
um sveitir ekur?
Þér man eg offra
til árbóta
kú og konu
og kristindómi.

Views: 44