Country Dance
by Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

That hobnailed goblin, the bob-tailed Hob,
Said, ‛It is time I began to rob.’
For strawberries bob, hob-nob with the pearls
Of cream (like the curls of the dairy girls),
And flushed with the heat and fruitish-ripe
Are the gowns of the maids who dance to the pipe.
Chase a maid?
She’s afraid!
‛Go gather a bob-cherry kiss from a tree,
But don’t, I prithee, come bothering me!’
She said,
As she fled.
The snouted satyrs drink clouted cream
’Neath the chestnut-trees as thick as a dream;
So I went,
And leant,
Where none but the doltish coltish wind
Nuzzled my hand for what it could find.
As it neighed,
I said,
‛Don’t touch me, sir, don’t touch me, I say,
You’ll tumble my strawberries into the hay.’
Those snow-mounds of silver that bee, the spring,
Has sucked his sweetness from, I will bring
With fair-haired plants and with apples chill
For the great god Pan’s high altar . . . I’ll spill
Not one!
So, in fun,
We rolled on the grass and began to run
Chasing that gaudy satyr the Sun;
Over the haycocks, away we ran
Crying, ‛Here be berries as sunburnt as Pan!’
But Silenus
Has seen us. . . .
He runs like the rough satyr Sun.
                                                               Come away!

Views: 32

Le Vase brisé
by Sully Prudhomme (1839-1907)

Le vase où meurt cette verveine
D’un coup d’éventail fut fêlé;
Le coup dut l’effleurer à peine:
Aucun bruit ne l’a révélé.

Mais la légère meurtrissure,
Mordant le cristal chaque jour,
D’une marche invisible et sûre,
En a fait lentement le tour.

Son eau fraîche a fui goutte à goutte,
Le suc des fleurs s’est épuisé;
Personne encore ne s’en doute,
N’y touchez pas, il est brisé.

Souvent aussi la main qu’on aime,
Effleurant le cœur, le meurtrit;
Puis le cœur se fend de lui-même,
La fleur de son amour périt;

Toujours intact aux yeux du monde,
Il sent croître et pleurer tout bas
Sa blessure fine et profonde;
Il est brisé, n’y touchez pas.

Views: 34

Somewhere or Other
by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Somewhere or other there must surely be
      The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!
      Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
      Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
      That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
      With just a wall, a hedge, between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
      Fallen on a turf grown green.

Views: 27

Miniver Cheevy
by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
      Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
      And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
      When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
      Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
      And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
      And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
      That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
      And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,
      Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
      Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace
      And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
      Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
      But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
      And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
      Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
      And kept on drinking.

Views: 29

“when god lets my body be”
by E.E. Cummings (1894-1962)

when god lets my body be

From each brave eye shall sprout a tree
fruit that dangles therefrom

the purpled world will dance upon
Between my lips which did sing

a rose shall beget the spring
that maidens whom passion wastes

will lay between their little breasts
My strong fingers beneath the snow

Into strenuous birds shall go
my love walking in the grass

their wings will touch with her face
and all the while shall my heart be

With the bulge and nuzzle of the sea

Views: 29

The Little Peach
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

A little peach in the orchard grew,—
A little peach of emerald hue;
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew,
⁠                              It grew.

One day, passing that orchard through,
That little peach dawned on the view
Of Johnny Jones and his Sister Sue—
⁠                              Them two.

Up at that peach a club they threw—
Down from the stem on which it grew
Fell that peach of emerald hue.
⁠                              Mon Dieu!

John took a bite and Sue a chew,
And then the trouble began to brew,—
Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue.
⁠                              Too true!

Under the turf where the daisies grew
They planted John and his Sister Sue,
And their little souls to the angels flew,—
⁠                              Boo hoo!

What of that peach of the emerald hue,
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?
Ah, well, its mission on earth is through.
⁠                              Adieu!

Views: 27

Сентябрь
by Innokenty Annensky (1855-1909)

Раззолочённые, но чахлые сады
С соблазном пурпура на медленных недугах,
И солнца поздний пыл в его коротких дугах,
Невластный вылиться в душистые плоды.

И жёлтый шёлк ковров, и грубые следы,
И понятая ложь последнего свиданья;
И парков чёрные, бездонные пруды,
Давно готовые для спелого страданья…

Но сердцу чудится лишь красота утрат,
Лишь упоение в заворожённой силе;
И тех, которые уж лотоса вкусили,
Волнует вкрадчивый осенний аромат.

Views: 34

Don Juan aux Enfers
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

Quand don Juan descendit vers l’onde souterraine
Et lorsqu’il eut donné son obole à Charon,
Un sombre mendiant, l’œil fier comme Antisthène,
D’un bras vengeur et fort saisit chaque aviron.

Montrant leurs seins pendants et leurs robes ouvertes,
Des femmes se tordaient sous le noir firmament,
Et, comme un grand troupeau de victimes offertes,
Derrière lui traînaient un long mugissement.

Sganarelle en riant lui réclamait ses gages,
Tandis que don Luis avec un doigt tremblant
Montrait à tous les morts errant sur les rivages
Le fils audacieux qui railla son front blanc.

Frissonnant sous son deuil, la chaste et maigre Elvire,
Près de l’époux perfide et qui fut son amant,
Semblait lui réclamer un suprême sourire
Où brillât la douceur de son premier serment.

Tout droit dans son armure, un grand homme de pierre
Se tenait à la barre et coupait le flot noir;
Mais le calme héros, courbé sur sa rapière,
Regardait le sillage et ne daignait rien voir.

Views: 43

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

“Hope” is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —

I’ve heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet — never — in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of me.

Views: 41

The Height of the Ridiculous
by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. (1809-1899)

I wrote some lines once on a time
      In wondrous merry mood,
And though, as usual, men would say
      They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
      I laughed as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,
      A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;
      How kind it was of him
To mind a slender man like me,
      He of the mighty limb.

“These to the print,” I exclaimed,
      And, in my humorous way,
I added, (as a trifling jest,)
      “There’ll be the devil to pay.”

He took the paper, and I watched,
      And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
      Was all upon the grin.

He read the next, the grin grew broad,
      And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
      I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
      The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
      And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
      I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
      As funny as I can.

Views: 88