Das zerbrochene Ringlein
by Joseph von Eichendorff (1788-1857)

In einem kühlen Grunde
Da geht ein Mühlenrad
Mein’ Liebste ist verschwunden,
Die dort gewohnet hat.

Sie hat mir Treu versprochen,
Gab mir ein’n Ring dabei,
Sie hat die Treu gebrochen,
Mein Ringlein sprang entzwei.

Ich möcht’ als Spielmann reisen
Weit in die Welt hinaus,
Und singen meine Weisen,
Und geh’n von Haus zu Haus.

Ich möcht’ als Reiter fliegen
Wohl in die blut’ge Schlacht,
Um stille Feuer liegen
Im Feld bei dunkler Nacht.

Hör’ ich das Mühlrad gehen:
Ich weiß nicht, was ich will —
Ich möcht’ am liebsten sterben,
Da wär’s auf einmal still!

Views: 42

On the Triumph of Messalla
by Albius Tibullus (c. 55-19 BCE)

Hunc cecinere diem Parcae fatalia nentes
      Stamina, non ulli dissoluenda deo,
Hunc fore, Aquitanas posset qui fundere gentes,
      Quem tremeret forti milite victus Atax.
Evenere: novos pubes Romana triumphos
      Vidit et evinctos bracchia capta duces;
At te victrices lauros, Messalla, gerentem
      Portabat nitidis currus eburnus equis.
Non sine me est tibi partus honos: Tarbella Pyrene
      Testis et Oceani litora Santonici,
Testis Arar Rhodanusque celer magnusque Garunna,
      Carnutis et flavi caerula lympha Liger.
An te, Cydne, canam, tacitis qui leniter undis
      Caeruleus placidis per vada serpis aquis,
Quantus et aetherio contingens vertice nubes
      Frigidus intonsos Taurus alat Cilicas?
Quid referam, ut volitet crebras intacta per urbes
      Alba Palaestino sancta columba Syro,
Utque maris vastum prospectet turribus aequor
      Prima ratem ventis credere docta Tyros,
Qualis et, arentes cum findit Sirius agros,
      Fertilis aestiva Nilus abundet aqua?
Nile pater, quanam possim te dicere causa
      Aut quibus in terris occuluisse caput?
Te propter nullos tellus tua postulat imbres,
      Arida nec pluvio supplicat herba Iovi.
Te canit atque suum pubes miratur Osirim
      Barbara, Memphiten plangere docta bovem.
Primus aratra manu sollerti fecit Osiris
      Et teneram ferro sollicitavit humum,
Primus inexpertae conmisit semina terrae
      Pomaque non notis legit ab arboribus.
Hic docuit teneram palis adiungere vitem,
      Hic viridem dura caedere falce comam;
Illi iucundos primum matura sapores
      Expressa incultis uva dedit pedibus.
Ille liquor docuit voces inflectere cantu,
      Movit et ad certos nescia membra modos,
Bacchus et agricolae magno confecta labore
      Pectora tristitiae dissoluenda dedit.
Bacchus et adflictis requiem mortalibus adfert,
      Crura licet dura conpede pulsa sonent.
Non tibi sunt tristes curae nec luctus, Osiri,
      Sed chorus et cantus et levis aptus amor,
Sed varii flores et frons redimita corymbis, 
      Fusa sed ad teneros lutea palla pedes
Et Tyriae vestes et dulcis tibia cantu
      Et levis occultis conscia cista sacris.
Huc ades et Genium ludis Geniumque choreis
      Concelebra et multo tempora funde mero:
Illius et nitido stillent unguenta capillo,
      Et capite et collo mollia serta gerat.
Sic venias hodierne: tibi dem turis honores,
      Liba et Mopsopio dulcia melle feram.
At tibi succrescat proles, quae facta parentis
      Augeat et circa stet veneranda senem.
Nec taceat monumenta viae, quem Tuscula tellus
      Candidaque antiquo detinet Alba Lare.
Namque opibus congesta tuis hic glarea dura
      Sternitur, hic apta iungitur arte silex.
Te canit agricola, a magna cum venerit urbe
      Serus inoffensum rettuleritque pedem.
At tu, Natalis multos celebrande per annos,
      Candidior semper candidiorque veni.

Views: 43

Al Sepulcro de Adonis
by Juan de Tassis y Peralta, Conde de Villamediana (1582-1622)

Desfrondad a los templos consagrados
a las del cielo lámparas dorinas
escamosas deidades, y entre espinas
mudos se dejan ver plectros dorados.

Las fuentes secas ya, lloren los prados
y dejan de flagrar las clavellinas,
indiquen el rigor de sus ruinas
los hoy bosques, de Amor desamparados.

Muerto es el dios de nuestras selvas, muerto,
y el canto cuya métrica armonía
las aves suspendió y enfrenó el viento.

Venga, pues, Cipria, visto el pecho abierto
del Adonis osado, en ansia pía
a dar flores y llanto al movimiento.

Views: 38

À un poète ignorant
by Clement Marot (1495-1544

      Qu’on mène aux champs ce coquardeau,
Lequel gâte, quand il compose,
Raison, mesure, texte, glose,
Soit en ballade, ou en rondeau.

Il n’a cervelle, ne cerveau,
C’est pourquoi, si haut crier j’ose:
Qu’on mène aux champs ce coquardeau.

      S’il veut rien faire de nouveau
Qu’il œuvre hardiment en prose
(J’entends s’il en sait quelque chose)
Car en Rime ce n’est qu’ung veau,
               Qu’on mène aux champs.

Views: 31

“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: 45

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: 39

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: 36

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: 31

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: 29