Die Nacht
by Georg Büchner (1813-1837)

Niedersinkt des Tages goldner Wagen,
Und die stille Nacht schwebt leis’ herauf,
Stillt mit sanfter Hand des Herzens Klagen,
Bringt uns Ruh im schweren Lebenslauf.

Ruhe gießt sie in das Herz des Müden,
Der ermattet auf der Pilgerbahn,
Bringt ihm wieder seinen stillen Frieden,
Den des Schicksals rauhe Hand ihm nahm.

Ruhig schlummernd liegen alle Wesen,
Feiernd schließet sich das Heiligtum,
Tiefe Stille herrscht im weiten Reiche,
Alles schweigt im öden Kreis herum.

Und der Mond schwebt hoch am klaren Äther,
Geußt sein sanftes Silberlicht herab;
Und die Sternlein funkeln in der Ferne
Schau’nd herab auf Leben und auf Grab.

Willkommen Mond, willkommen sanfter Bote
Der Ruhe in dem rauhen Erdental,
Verkündiger von Gottes Lieb und Gnade,
Des Schirmers in Gefahr und Mühesal.

Willkommen Sterne, seid gegrüßt ihr Zeugen
Der Allmacht Gottes der die Welten lenkt,
Der unter allen Myriaden Wesen
Auch meiner voll von Lieb’ und Gnade denkt.

Ja, heil’ger Gott, du bist der Herr der Welten,
Du hast den Sonnenball emporgetürmt,
Hast den Planeten ihre Bahn bezeichnet,
Du bist es, der das All mit Allmacht schirmt.

Unendlicher, den keine Räume fassen,
Erhabener, den Keines Geist begreift,
Allgütiger, den alle Welten preisen,
Erbarmender, der Sündern Gnade beut!

Erlöse gnädig uns von allem Übel,
Vergib uns liebend jede Missetat,
Laß wandeln uns auf deines Sohnes Wege,
Und siegen über Tod und über Grab.

Views: 33

Apologia
by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,
      Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
      Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?

Is it thy will—Love that I love so well—
      That my Soul’s House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
      The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?

Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,
      And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
      And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.

Perchance it may be better so—at least
      I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,
      Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.

Many a man hath done so; sought to fence
      In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,
Trodden the dusty road of common sense,
      While all the forest sang of liberty.

Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
      Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,
To where the steep untrodden mountain height
      Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair.

Or how the little flower he trod upon,
      The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,
Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun
      Content if once its leaves were aureoled.

But surely it is something to have been
      The best beloved for a little while,
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
      His purple wings flit once across thy smile.

Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed
      On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the bars,
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
      The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!

Views: 33

The Solitary Reaper
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
because today is International Day of Rural Women

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Views: 47

Care-Charmer Sleep
by Samuel Daniel (1562-1619)

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born:
Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
With dark forgetting of my cares, return;
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventur’d youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night’s untruth.
Cease dreams, th’ imagery of our day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain;
And never wake to feel the day’s disdain.

Views: 37

Infant Eyes
by Ernest Myers (1844-1921)

Blood of my blood, bone of my bone,
Heart of my being’s heart,
Strange visitant, yet very son;
All this, and more, thou art.

In thy soft lineaments I trace,
More winning daily grown,
The sweetness of thy mother’s face
Transfiguring my own.

That grave but all untroubled gaze,
So rapt yet never dim,
Seems following o’er their starry ways
The wings of cherubim.

Two worlds man hardly may descry,
(For manhood clouds them o’er),
Commingled to mine inward eye
Are shadowed forth once more:

That lost world, whither man’s regret
With fictive fancy turns;
That world to come, where brighter yet
The star of promise burns.

Time and his weary offspring Care
Fade in that gaze away;
One moment mystically fair
Lives on, one timeless day.

Views: 28

If Cattle Had Hands
by Xenophanes (c. 570-c. 478 BCE)

ἀλλ’ εἰ χεῖρας ἔχον βόες <ἵπποι τ’> ἠὲ λέοντες
ἢ γράψαι χείρεσσι καὶ ἔργα τελεῖν ἅπερ ἄνδρες,
ἵπποι μέν θ’ ἵπποισι, βόες δέ τε βουσὶν ὁμοίας
καί <κε> θεῶν ἰδέας ἔγραφον καὶ σώματ’ ἐποίουν
τοιαῦθ’, οἷόν περ καὐτοὶ δέμας εἶχον ἕκαστοι.

Views: 22

Abend
by Andreas Gryphius (1616-1664)

Der schnelle Tag ist hin; die Nacht schwingt ihre Fahn’
Und führt die Sternen auf. Der Menschen müde Scharen
Verlassen Feld und Werk; Wo Tier’ und Vögel waren
Trau’rt jetzt die Einsamkeit. Wie ist die Zeit vertan!

Der port naht mehr und mehr der wildbewegte Kahn.
Gleich wie dies Licht verfiel, so wird in wenig Jahren
Ich, du, und was man hat, und was man sieht, hinfahren.
Dies Leben kommt mir vor als eine Rennebahn.

Laß, höchster Gott, mich doch nicht auff dem Laufplatz gleiten!
Laß mich nicht Scnmerz, nicht Pracht, nicht Lust nicht Angst verleiten!
Dein ewig heller Glanz sei von und neben mir!

Laß, wenn der müde Leib entschläft, die Seele wachen
Und wenn der letzte Tag wird mit mir Abend machen,
So reiß mich auß dem Tal der Finsternis zu Dir!

Views: 32

Wonder
by Thomas Traherne (1637-1674)

   How like an angel came I down!
      How bright are all things here!
When first among his works I did appear
   O how their glory me did crown!
The world resembled his eternity,
      In which my soul did walk;
   And ev’ry thing that I did see
            Did with me talk.

   The skies in their magnificence,
      The lively, lovely air;
Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair!
   The stars did entertain my sense,
And all the works of God, so bright and pure,
      So rich and great did seem,
   As if they ever must endure
            In my esteem.

   A native health and innocence
      Within my bones did grow,
And while my God did all his glories show,
   I felt a vigour in my sense
That was all spirit. I within did flow
      With seas of life, like wine;
   I nothing in the world did know
            But ’twas divine.

   Harsh ragged objects were conceal’d,
      Oppressions tears and cries,
Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping eyes
   Were hid, and only things reveal’d
Which heav’nly spirits, and the angels prize.
      The state of innocence
   And bliss, not trades and poverties,
            Did fill my sense.

   The streets were pav’d with golden stones,
      The boys and girls were mine,
Oh how did all their lovely faces shine!
   The sons of men were holy ones,
In joy and beauty they appear’d to me,
      And every thing which here I found,
   While like an angel I did see,
            Adorn’d the ground.

   Rich diamond and pearl and gold
      In ev’ry place was seen;
Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green,
   Mine eyes did everywhere behold.
Great wonders cloth’d with glory did appear,
      Amazement was my bliss,
   That and my wealth was ev’ry where:
            No joy to this!

   Curs’d and devis’d proprieties,
      With envy, avarice
And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Paradise,
   Flew from the splendour of mine eyes,
And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds,
      I dream’d not aught of those,
   But wander’d over all men’s grounds,
            And found repose.

   Proprieties themselves were mine,
      And hedges ornaments;
Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents
   Did not divide my joys, but all combine.
Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteem’d
      My joys by others worn:
   For me they all to wear them seem’d
            When I was born.

Views: 27

The Sign of the Cross
by John Henry Newman (1801-1890)

Whene’er across this sinful flesh of mine
      I draw the Holy Sign,
All good thoughts stir within me, and renew
      Their slumbering strength divine;
Till there springs up a courage high and true
      To suffer and to do.

And who shall say, but hateful spirits around,
      For their brief hour unbound,
Shudder to see, and wail their overthrow?
      While on far heathen ground
Some lonely Saint hails the fresh odor, though
      Its source he cannot know.

Views: 28

“Integer vitae”
by Quintus Horatius Flaccus (“Horace”) (65-8 BCE)

Integer vitae scelerisque purus
non eget Mauris iaculis neque arcu
nec venenatis gravida sagittis,
         Fusce, pharetra,

sive per Syrtis iter aestuosas
sive facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum vel quae loca fabulosus
         lambit Hydaspes.

Namque me silva lupus in Sabina,
dum meam canto Lalagen et ultra
terminum curis vagor expeditis,
         fugit inermem,

quale portentum neque militaris
Daunias latis alit aesculetis
nec Iubae tellus generat, leonum
         arida nutrix.

Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
arbor aestiva recreatur aura,
quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
         Iuppiter urget;

pone sub curru nimium propinqui
solis in terra domibus negata:
dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
         dulce loquentem.

Views: 17