“De ramis cadunt folia”
Anonymous (13th century)

De ramis cadunt folia,
         nam viror totus periit,
iam calor liquit omnia
         et abiit;
nam signa coeli ultima
         sol petiit.

Iam nocet frigus teneris,
         et avis bruma leditur,
et philomena ceteris
         conqueritur,
quod illis ignis etheris
         adimitur.

Nec lympha caret alveus,
         nec prata virent herbida,
sol nostra fugit aureus
         confinia;
est inde dies niveus,
         nox frigida.

Modo frigescit quidquid est,
         sed solus ego caleo;
immo sic mihi cordi est
         quod ardeo;
hic ignis tamen virgo est,
         qua langueo.

Nutritur ignis osculo
         et leni tactu virginis;
in suo lucet oculo
         lux luminis,
nec est in toto seculo
         plus numinis.

Ignis grecus extinguitur
         cum vino iam acerrimo;
sed iste non extinguitur
         miserrimo:
immo fomento alitur
         uberrimo.

Views: 52

Down By the Sally Gardens
by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
This has been set to music and often recorded. Here, for example, are the versions by Alfred Deller, Richard Dyer-Bennet, Tommy Makem, and John McCormack.

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

Views: 47

Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae
by Ernest Dowson (1867-1900)

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine,
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
         Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon my heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within my arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
         When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
         Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
         Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Views: 27

On Lucy, Countess of Bedford
by Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

This morning timely wrapt with holy fire,
I thought to form unto my zealous Muse,
What kind of creature I could most desire
To know, serve, and love, as Poets use.
I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,
Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;
I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,
Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat;
I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,
Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride;
I meant each softest virtue there should meet,
Fit in that softer bosom to reside.
Only a learned, and a manly soul
I purposed her: that should with even powers,
The rock, the spindle, and the shears control
Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours.
Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see,
My Muse bade Bedford write, and that was she!

Views: 49

To Cynthia
by Sextus Propertius (c. 50- c. 15 BCE)

Haec certe deserta loca et taciturna querenti,
      et vacuum Zephyri possidet aura nemus.
hic licet occultos proferre impune dolores,
      si modo sola queant saxa tenere fidem.
unde tuos primum repetam, mea Cynthia, fastus?
      quod mihi das flendi, Cynthia, principium?
qui modo felicis inter numerabar amantes,
      nunc in amore tuo cogor habere notam.
quid tantum merui? quae te mihi crimina mutant?
      an nova tristitiae causa puella tuae?
sic mihi te referas, levis, ut non altera nostro
      limine formosos intulit ulla pedes.
quamvis multa tibi dolor hic meus aspera debet,
      non ita saeva tamen venerit ira mea,
ut tibi sim merito semper furor, et tua flendo
      lumina deiectis turpia sint lacrimis.
an quia parva damus mutato signa colore,
      et non ulla meo clamat in ore fides?
vos eritis testes, si quos habet arbor amores,
      fagus et Arcadio pinus amica deo.
ah quotiens vestras resonant mea verba sub umbras,
      scribitur et teneris Cynthia corticibus!
ah tua quot peperit nobis iniuria curas,
      quae solum tacitis cognita sunt foribus!
omnia consuevi timidus perferre superbae
      iussa neque arguto facta dolore queri.
pro quo continui montes et frigida rupes
      et datur inculto tramite dura quies;
et quodcumque meae possunt narrare querelae,
      cogor ad argutas dicere solus aves.
sed qualiscumque’s, resonent mihi ‛Cynthia’ silvae,
      nec deserta tuo nomine saxa vacent.

Views: 35

A Roma supultada en sus ruinas
by Francisco de Quevedo (1580-1645)

Buscas en Roma a Roma ¡oh peregrino!
y en Roma misma a Roma no la hallas:
cadáver son las que ostentó murallas
y tumba de sí proprio el Aventino.

Yace donde reinaba el Palatino
y limadas del tiempo, las medallas
más se muestran destrozo a las batallas
de las edades que Blasón Latino.

Sólo el Tíber quedó, cuya corriente,
si ciudad la regó, ya sepultura
la llora con funesto son doliente.

¡Oh Roma en tu grandeza, en tu hermosura,
huyó lo que era firme y solamente
lo fugitivo permanece y dura!

Views: 36

Carrion Comfort
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

      Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

Views: 29

The Wake of William Orr
by William Drennan (1754-1820)

Here our murdered brother lies;
Wake him not with women’s cries;
Mourn the way that manhood ought—
Sit in silent trance of thought.

Write his merits on your mind;
Morals pure and manners kind;
In his head, as on a hill,
Virtue placed her citadel.

Why cut off in palmy youth?
Truth he spoke, and acted truth –
‛Countrymen, UNITE!’ he cried,
And died for what our Saviour died.

God of Peace, and God of Love!
Let it not thy vengeance move—
Let it not thy lightnings draw—
A Nation guillotined by law!

Hapless nation! rent and torn,
Thou wert early taught to mourn;
Warfare of six hundred years!
Epochs marked with blood and tears!

Hunted thro’ thy native grounds,
Or flung reward to human hounds,
Each one pulled and tore his share,
Heedless of thy deep despair.

Hapless Nation! hapless Land!
Heap of uncementing sand!
Crumbled by a foreign weight,
And, by worse, domestic hate.

God of Mercy! God of Peace!
Make the mad confusion cease;
O’er the mental chaos move,
Through it SPEAK the light of love.

Monstrous and unhappy sight,
Brothers’ blood will not unite;
Holy oil and holy water,
Mix, and fill the world with slaughter.

Who is she with aspect wild?
The widow’d mother with her child—
Child new stirring in the womb!
Husband waiting for the tomb!

Angel of this sacred place,
Calm her soul and whisper peace—
Cord, or axe, or guillotine,
Make the sentence—not the sin.

Here we watch our brother’s sleep;
Watch with us, but do not weep;
Watch with us thro’ dead of night—
But expect the morning light.

Views: 49

Gebet
by Eduard Mörike (1804-1875)

Herr! schicke, was du willt,
Ein Liebes oder Leides;
Ich bin vergnügt, daß Beides
Aus Deinen Händen quillt.

Wollest mit Freuden
Und wollest mit Leiden
Mich nicht überschütten!
Doch in der Mitten
Liegt holdes Bescheiden.

Views: 33

Ballade des dames du temps jadis
by François Villon (c. 1431-c. 1463)

Dictes moy où, n’en quel pays,
Est Flora, la belle Romaine;
Archipiada, ne Thaïs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine;
Echo, parlant quand bruyt on maine
Dessus rivière ou sus estan,
Qui beauté eut trop plus qu’humaine?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

Où est la très sage Heloïs,
Pour qui fut chastré et puis moyne
Pierre Esbaillart à Sainct-Denys?
Pour son amour eut cest essoyne.
Semblablement, où est la royne
Qui commanda que Buridan
Fust jetté en ung sac en Seine?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

La royne Blanche comme ung lys,
Qui chantoit à voix de sereine;
Berthe au grand pied, Bietris, Allys;
Harembourges qui tint le Mayne,
Et Jehanne, la bonne Lorraine,
Qu’Anglois bruslerent à Rouen;
Où sont-ilz, Vierge souveraine?
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

Prince, n’enquerez de sepmaine
Où elles sont, ne de cest an,
Qu’à ce refrain ne vous remaine:
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan!

Views: 28