“O may I join the choir invisible”
by George Eliot (1819-1880)

O may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence: live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge man’s search
To vaster issues.

                                     So to live is heaven:
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing as beauteous order that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air.
And all our rarer, better, truer self,
That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burden of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better—saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love—
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb
Unread forever.

                              This is life to come,
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty—
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense.
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.

Views: 38

Nocturne
by Sigbjørn Obstfelder (1866-1900)

Møllens vinger stanser sin susen,
      Aaen speiler nattens øie,
Blomsternes læber ydmygt beder,
      Trærnes kroner hvisker, hvisker.

Presterne tænder de blege kjerter,
      Nonnerne nynner de fromme bønner,
Børnene folder de spinkle hænder,
      Svanerne skjuler sit næb under vingen.

Snart skal de sove, alle de trætte,
      Hvile hodet mygt paa puden,
Glemme de graa, sørgmodige tanker,
      Slumre, sove, drømme, sove.

Views: 37

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.

Views: 40

The Modern Major-General
by W.S. Gilbert (1836-1911)

I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral,
⁠I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral;
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical,
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;
I’m very well acquainted too with matters mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical.
About binomial theorem I’m teeming with a lot o’ news,
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
I’m very good at integral and differential calculus,
I know the scientific names of beings animalculous.
In short, in matters vegetable, animal and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

I know our mythic history—KING ARTHUR’S and SIR CARADOC’S,
I answer hard acrostics, I’ve a pretty taste for paradox,
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of HELIOGABALUS,
In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous.
I can tell undoubted RAPHAELS from GERARD DOWS and ZOFFANIES,
I know the croaking chorus from the “Frogs” of ARISTOPHANES,
Then I can hum a fugue, of which I’ve heard the music’s din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense “Pinafore.”
Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform,
And tell you every detail of CARACTCUS’S uniform.
In short in matters vegetable, animal and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

In fact when I know what is meant by “mamelon” and “ravelin,”
When I can tell at sight a Chassepôt rifle from a javelin,
When such affairs as sorties and surprises I’m more wary at,
And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat,
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,
When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery,
In short when I’ve a smattering of elementary strategy,
You’ll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee—
For my military knowledge, though I’m plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century,
But still in learning vegetable, animal and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral!

Views: 34

To One in Bedlam
by Ernest Dowson (1867-1900)

With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
Those scentless wisps of straw that, miserable, line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares.

Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars
With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine
Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,
And make his melancholy germane to the stars’?

O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,
Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;
Half a fool’s kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,
All their days, vanity? Better then mortal flowers,
Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,
The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!

Views: 30

Ísland
by Jónas Halgrímsson (1807-1845)
because today is Icelandic Language Day

Ísland, farsældafrón og hagsælda, hrímhvíta móðir!
Hvar er þín fornaldarfrægð, frelsið og manndáðin bezt?
Allt er í heiminum hverfult, og stund þíns fegursta frama
Lýsir sem leiftur um nótt langt fram á horfinni öld.
Landið var fagurt og frítt og fannhvítir jöklanna tindar,
Himinninn heiður og blár, hafið var skínandi bjart.
Þá komu feðurnir frægu og frjálsræðishetjurnar góðu
Austan um hyldýpishaf, hingað í sælunnar reit.
Reistu sér byggðir og bú í blómguðu dalanna skauti,
Ukust að íþrótt og frægð, undu svo glaðir við sitt.
Hátt á eldhrauni upp, þar sem ennþá Öxará rennur
Ofan í Almannagjá, alþingið feðranna stóð.
Þar stóð hann Þorgeir á þingi, er við trúnni var tekið af lýði.
Þar komu Gissur og Geir, Gunnar og Héðinn og Njáll.
Þá riðu hetjur um héruð, og skrautbúin skip fyrir landi
Flutu með fríðasta lið, færandi varninginn heim.
Það er svo bágt að standa í stað, og mönnunum munar
Annaðhvort aftur á bak ellegar nokkuð á leið.
Hvað er þá orðið okkar starf í sex hundruð sumur?
Höfum við gengið til góðs götuna fram eftir veg?
Landið er fagurt og frítt og fannhvítir jöklanna tindar,
Himinninn heiður og blár, hafið er skínandi bjart.
En á eldhrauni upp, þar sem ennþá Öxará rennur
Ofan í Almannagjá, alþing er horfið á braut.
Nú er hún Snorrabúð stekkur, og lyngið á Lögbergi helga
blánar af berjum hvert ár, börnum og hröfnum að leik.
Ó, þér unglinga fjöld og Íslands fullorðnu synir!
Svona er feðranna frægð fallin í gleymsku og dá!

Views: 28

I May, I Might, I Must
by Marianne Moore (1887-1972)

If you will tell me why the fen
appears impassable, I then
will tell you why I think that I
can get across it if I try.

Views: 24

Aladdins Vuggesang
by Adam Oehlenschläger (1779-1850)

Visselulle, nu barnlil!
   Sov nu sodt og sov nu længe!
   Skjønt din Vugge stander stil,
Uden Dun og uden Gænge.

Hører du den dumpe Storm
   Sukke ved hvad jeg forliste?
   Mærker du den sultne Orm
Pikke paa din Fyrrekiste?

Sov, barnlille! ved min Sang
   Intet skal din Glæde mangle.
   Hører du den muntre Klang,
Hist i Taarnet af din rangle!

Nattergalen nærmer sig,—
   Fryder dig dens blide Klukke?
   Du har ofte vugget mig,
Nu skal jeg igden dig vugge.

Er ei Hjertet haardt som Sten,
   Mærk min Idræt, Moder kjære!
   Her af denne Hyldegren
Vil jeg dig en Fløite skære.

Ved dens Toner kvæg dit Sind!
   Hvor den klager svagt og ene,
   Som en vildsom Nattevind
I de vaade Vintergrene!

Ak, nu maa jeg fra dig gaae;
   Det er koldt i dine Arme,
   Men jeg ejer ingen Vraa,
Hvor jeg mig igjen kan varme.

Visselulle da, barnlil!
   Sov nu sodt og sov nu længe,
   Skjønt din Vugge stander stil
Uden Dun og uden Gænge.

Views: 33

Detente sombra
by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1651-1695)

Detente, sombra de mi bien esquivo,
imagen del hechizo que más quiero,
bella ilusión por quien alegre muero,
dulce ficción por quien penosa vivo.

Si al imán de tus gracias, atractivo,
sirve mi pecho de obediente acero,
¿para qué me enamoras lisonjero
si has de burlarme luego fugitivo?

Mas blasonar no puedes, satisfecho,
de que triunfa de mí tu tiranía:
que aunque dejas burlado el lazo estrecho

que tu forma fantástica ceñía,
poco importa burlar brazos y pecho
si te labra prisión mi fantasía.

Views: 32

Fannie
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907)

Fannie has the sweetest foot
Ever in a gaiter boot!
And the hoyden knows it,
And, of course, she shows it-
Not the knowledge, but the foot-
Yet with such a modest grace,
Never seems it out of place,
            Ah, there are not many
               Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
            Or wickeder than Fannie.

Fannie has the blackest hair
      Of any of the village girls;
It does not shower on her neck
      In silken or coquettish curls.
It droops in folds around her brow,
      As clouds, at night, around the moon,
Looped with lilies here and there,
      In many a dangerous festoon.
And Fannie wears a gipsy hat,
Saucily-yes, all of that!
            Ah, there are not many
               Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
            Or wickeder than Fannie.

Fannie wears an open dress-
      Ah! the charming chemisette!
Half concealing, half revealing
      Something far more charming yet.
Fannie draper her breast with lace,
As one would drape a costly vase
To keep away mischevious flies;
But lace can’t keep away one’s eyes,
For every time her bosom heaves,
      Ah, it peepeth through it;
Yet Fannie looks the while as if
      Never once she knew it.
            Ah, there are not many
               Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
            Or innocent than Fannie.

Fannie lays her hand in mine;
      Fannie speaks with naivete,
Fannie kisses me, she does!
      In her own coquettish way.
Then softly speaks and deeply sighs,
With angels nestled in her eyes.
In the merrie month of May,
Fannie swears sincerely
She will be my own wife,
And love me dearly, dearly
Ever after all her life.
            Ah, there are not many
               Half so sly, or sad, or mad,
            As my true-hearted Fannie.

Views: 32