Auf den Tod eines Kindes
by Paul Heyse (1830-1914)
Mir war’s, ich hört’ es an der Thüre pochen,
Und fuhr empor, als wärst du wieder da
Und sprächest wieder, wie du oft gesprochen,
Mit Schmeichelton: Darf ich hinein, Papa?
Und da ich Abends ging am steilen Strand,
Fühlt’ ich dein Händchen warm in meiner Hand.
Und wo die Flut Gestein herangewälzt,
Sagt’ ich ganz laut: Gieb Acht, daß du nicht fällst!
Views: 23
A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray and Dim
by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,
Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
Curious I halt and silent stand,
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;
Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray’d hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes?
Who are you my dear comrade?
Then to the second I step—and who are you my child and darling?
Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?
Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory;
Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the face of the Christ himself,
Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.
Views: 49
The Disabled Debauchee
by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680)
As some brave Admiral, in former War
Depriv’d of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two Rival Fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the top of an Adjacent Hill,
From whence, with thoughts full of concern, he views
The wise and daring conduct of the Fight,
And each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory and his past delight;
From his fierce eyes flashes of Rage he throws,
As from black Clouds when Lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his Foes,
And absent, yet enjoys the bloody Day:
So, when my days of Impotence approach,
And I’m by Pox and Wine’s unlucky chance
Forc’d from the pleasing Billows of Debauch
On the Dull Shore of lazy Temperance;
My pains at least some respite shall afford
While I behold the Battles you maintain,
When Fleets of Glasses Sail about the Board,
From whose broad sides Volleys of Wit shall Rain.
Nor shall the sight of honorable Scars,
Which my too forward valor did procure,
Frighten new-lifted Soldiers from the Wars;
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.
Should hopeful youths, worth being drunk, prove nice,
And from their fair Inviters meanly shrink;
Twill please the Ghost of my departed Vice
If, at my counsel, they repent, and Drink.
Or should some cold complexion’d Sot forbid,
With his Dull Morals, your bold Night-Alarms;
I’ll fire his blood, by telling what I did
When I was strong, and able to bear Arms.
I’ll tell of Whores attack’d, their Lords at home;
Bauds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won:
Windows demolish’d, Watches overcome;
And handsome Ills, by my contrivance, done.
Nor shall our Love-fits Cloris be forgot,
When each the well-look’d Linkboy strove t’enjoy;
And the best Kiss was the deciding Lot,
Whether the Boy Fuck’d you, or I the Boy.
With Tales like these, I will such thoughts inspire
As to important mischief shall incline;
I’ll make him long some Ancient Church to fire,
And fear no lewdness he’s call’d to by Wine.
Thus, Statesman-like, I’ll saucily Impose,
And, safe from Action, valiantly Advise;
Shelter’d in Impotence, urge you to blows:
And being good for nothing else, be Wise.
Views: 28
A Dialogue Between the Soul and Body
by Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)
Soul
O who shall, from this Dungeon, raise
A Soul inslav’d so many ways?
With bolts of Bones, that fetter’d stands
In Feet; and manacled in Hands.
Here blinded with an Eye; and there,
Deaf with the drumming of an Ear.
A Soul hung up, as ’twere, in Chains
Of Nerves, and Arteries, and Veins.
Tortur’d, besides each other part,
In a vain Head, and double Heart.
Body
O who shall me deliver whole,
From bonds of this Tyrannic Soul?
Which, stretcht upright, impales me so,
That mine own Precipice I go;
And warms and moves this needless Frame:
(A Fever could but do the same.)
And, wanting where its spite to try,
Has made me live to let me die.
A Body that could never rest,
Since this ill Spirit it possest.
Soul
What Magic could me thus confine
Within another’s Grief to pine?
Where whatsoever it complain,
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain.
And all my care its self employs,
That to preserve, which me destroys:
Constrain’d not only to endure
Diseases, but what’s worse, the Cure:
And ready oft the port to gain,
And Shipwrackt into Health again.
Body
But Physic yet could never reach
The maladies thou me dost teach;
Whom the first Cramp of Hope dost tear:
And then the Palsy shakes of Fear.
The Pestilence of Love does heat:
Or Hatred’s hidden Ulcer eat.
Joy’s cheerful Madness does perplex:
Or Sorrow’s other Madness vex.
Which Knowledge forces me to know,
And Memory will not forgo.
What but a Soul could have the wit
To build me up for Sin so fit?
So Architects do square and hew,
Green Trees that in the Forest grew.
Views: 32
Parsifal
by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
Parsifal a vaincu les Filles, leur gentil
Babil et la luxure amusante — et sa pente
Vers la Chair de garçon vierge que cela tente
D’aimer les seins légers et ce gentil babil;
Il vaincu la Femme belle, au cœur subtil,
Étalant ses bras frais et sa gorge excitante;
Il a vaincu l’Enfer et rentre sous sa tente
Avec un lourd trophée à son bras puéril,
Avec la lance qui perça le Flanc suprême!
Il a guéri le roi, le voici roi lui-même,
Et prêtre du très saint Trésor essentiel.
En robe d’or il adore, gloire et symbole,
Le vase pur où resplendit le Sang réel.
— Et, ô ces voix d’enfants chantant dans la coupole!
Views: 43
Soldiers of Freedom
by Katharine Lee Bates (1863-1929)
They veiled their souls with laughter
And many a mocking pose,
These lads who follow after
Wherever Freedom goes;
These lads we used to censure
For levity and ease
On Freedom’s high adventure
Go shining overseas.
Our springing tears adore them
These boys at school and play,
Fair-fortuned years before them,
Alas! but yesterday.
Divine with sudden splendor
—Oh how our eyes were blind!—
In careless self-surrender
They battle for mankind.
Soldiers of Freedom! Gleaming
And golden they depart,
Transfigured by the dreaming
Of boyhood’s hidden heart.
Her lovers they confess them
And, rushing on her foes,
Toss her their youth—God bless them!—
As lightly as a rose.
Views: 32
Fire and Ice
by Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great,
And would suffice
Views: 37
Michelangelo und seine Statuen
by Conrad Ferdinand Meyer (1825-1898)
Du öffnest, Sklave, deinen Mund,
Doch stöhnst du nicht. Die Lippe schweigt.
Nicht drückt, Gedankenvoller, dich
Die Bürde der behelmten Stirn.
Du packst mit nerv’ger Hand den Bart,
Doch springst du, Moses, nicht empor.
Maria mit dem todten Sohn,
Du weinst, doch rinnt die Thräne nicht.
Ihr stellt des Leids Geberde dar,
Ihr meine Kinder, ohne Leid!
So sieht der freigewordne Geist
Des Lebens überwundne Qual.
Was martert die lebend’ge Brust,
Beseligt und ergötzt im Stein.
Den Augenblick verewigt ihr,
Und sterbt ihr, sterbt ihr ohne Tod.
Im Schilfe wartet Charon mein,
Der pfeifend sich die Zeit vertreibt.
Views: 30
A Psalm of Life
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Views: 497
To Rebecca, who slammed doors for fun and perished miserably
by Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953)
A trick that everyone abhors
In little girls is slamming doors.
A wealthy banker’s little daughter
Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater
(By name Rebecca Offendort),
Was given to this furious sport.
She would deliberately go
And slam the door like billy-o!
To make her uncle Jacob start.
She was not really bad at heart,
But only rather rude and wild;
She was an aggravating child…
It happened that a marble bust
Of Abraham was standing just
Above the door this little lamb
Had carefully prepared to slam,
And down it came! It knocked her flat!
It laid her out! She looked like that.
Her funeral sermon (which was long
And followed by a sacred song)
Mentioned her virtues, it is true,
But dwelt upon her vices too,
And showed the dreadful end of one
Who goes and slams the door for fun.
The children who were brought to hear
The awful tale from far and near
Were much impressed, and inly swore
They never more would slam the door,
— As often they had done before.
Views: 43