Bring Out the Wine and Leave Everything Else to the Gods (Odes, I, 9)
by Quintus Horatius Flaccus (“Horace”) (65-8 BCE)

Vides ut alta stet nive candidum
Soracte nec iam sustineant onus
      silvae laborantes geluque
         flumina constiterint acuto?

Dissolve frigus ligna super foco
large reponens atque benignius
      deprome quadrimum Sabina,
         o Thaliarche, merum diota.

Permitte divis cetera, qui simul
strauere ventos aequore fervido
      deproeliantis, nec cupressi
         nec veteres agitantur orni.

Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quaerere, et
quem fors dierum cumque dabit, lucro
      adpone nec dulcis amores
         sperne, puer, neque tu choreas,

donec virenti canities abest
morosa. Nunc et Campus et areae
      lenesque sub noctem susurri
         composita repetantur hora,

nunc et latentis proditor intumo
gratus puellae risus ab angulo
      pignusque dereptum lacertis
         aut digito male pertinaci.

Views: 28

Soneto (“Osé y temí”)
by Fernando de Herrera (1534-1597)

Osé y temí; más pudo la osadía
tanto, que desprecié el temor cobarde.
Subí a do el fuego más me enciende y arde
cuanto más la esperanza se desvía.

Gasté en error la edad florida mía;
ahora veo el daño, pero tarde,
que ya mal puede ser que el seso guarde
a quien se entrega ciego a su porfía.

Tal vez pruebo (mas qué me vale) alzarme
del grave peso que mi cuello oprime;
aunque falta a la poca fuerza el hecho.

Sigo al fin mi furor, porque mudarme
no es honra ya, ni justo que se estime
tan mal de quien tan bien rindió su pecho.

Views: 28

Der Greis und der Tod
by Johann Wilhelm Ludwig Gleim (1719-1803)

Ein Greis von achtundachtzig Jahren,
Ein armer, abgelebter Greis
Mit wenigen schneeweißen Haaren,
Kam aus dem Walde, trug
Auf seinem krummen Rücken,
Ein Bündel Reis.

Ach Gott! der arme Greis!
Er mußte wohl sehr oft sich bücken,
Eh’ er’s zusammenlas?
Er hatte keinen Sohn, sonst hätte der’s getan.

Und weil vor Mattigkeit er nun nicht weiter kann,
So setzt er ab; und als er nun da saß
Bei seinem Bündel und bedachte,
Wie viel Beschwerde, Müh und Not
Das Bündel Reis ihm machte,
Wie viel sein bißchen täglich Brot;
Da seufzt er lebenssatt und weint und ruft den Tod.

“Befreie mich,” spricht er, “von aller meiner Not
Und bringe mich zur Ruh!”

Der Tod kommt an, geht auf den Rufer zu.
“Was willst du?” fragt er, “du!
Daß du mich hergerufen hast?
Du trägst auch eine schwere Last!”
“Ach, lieber Tod,” versetzt darauf
Der arme Greis, “hilf sie mir auf!”

Views: 36

The Momument of Giordano Bruno
by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

                                    I

Not from without us, only from within,
      Comes or can ever come upon us light
      Whereby the soul keeps ever truth in sight.
No truth, no strength, no comfort man may win,
No grace for guidance, no release from sin,
      Save of his own soul’s giving. Deep and bright
      As fire enkindled in the core of night
Burns in the soul where once its fire has been
The light that leads and quickens thought, inspired
      To doubt and trust and conquer. So he said
      Whom Sidney, flower of England, lordliest head
Of all we love, loved: but the fates required
   A sacrifice to hate and hell, ere fame
   Should set with his in heaven Giordano’s name.

                                    II

Cover thine eyes and weep, O child of hell,
      Grey spouse of Satan, Church of name abhorred.
      Weep, withered harlot, with thy weeping lord,
Now none will buy the heaven thou hast to sell
At price of prostituted souls, and swell
      Thy loveless list of lovers. Fire and sword
      No more are thine: the steel, the wheel, the cord,
The flames that rose round living limbs, and fell
In lifeless ash and ember, now no more
Approve thee godlike. Rome, redeemed at last
From all the red pollution of thy past,
Acclaims the grave bright face that smiled of yore
      Even on the fire that caught it round and clomb
      To cast its ashes on the face of Rome.

Views: 42

Nevicata
by Giosuè Carducci (1835-1907)

Lenta fiocca la neve pe ’l cielo cinereo: gridi,
Suoni di vita più non salgono da la città,

Non d’erbaiola il grido o corrente rumore di carro,
Non d’amor la canzon ilare e di gioventù.

Da la torre di piazza roche per l’aere le ore
Gemon, come sospir d’un mondo lungi dal dì.

Picchiano uccelli raminghi a’ vetri appannati: gli amici
Spiriti reduci son, guardano e chiamano a me.

In breve, o cari, in breve – tu càlmati, indomito cuore –
Giù al silenzio verrò, ne l’ombra riposerò.

Views: 40

Delfica
by Gérard de Nerval (1808-1855)

La connais-tu, Dafné, cette ancienne romance,
Au pied du sycomore, ou sous les lauriers blancs,
Sous l’olivier, le myrte, ou les saules tremblants,
Cette chanson d’amour qui toujours recommence?…

Reconnais-tu le Temple au péristyle immense,
Et les citrons amers où s’imprimaient tes dents,
Et la grotte, fatale aux hôtes imprudents,
Où du dragon vaincu dort l’antique semence?…

Ils reviendront, ces Dieux que tu pleures toujour!
Le temps va ramener l’ordre des anciens jours;
La terre a tressailli d’un souffle prophétique…

Cependant la sibylle au visage latin
Est endormie encor sous l’arc de Constantin
— Et rien n’a dérangé le sévère portique.

Views: 28

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: 40

The P.R.B. (Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood)
by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

The two Rossettis (brothers they)
And Holman Hunt and John Millais,
With Stephens chivalrous and bland,
And Woolner in a distant land—
In these six men I awestruck see
Embodied the great P.R.B.

Views: 31

Dead Love
by George Meredith (1828-1909)

Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive
Leap off the rim of earth across the dome.
It is a night to make the heavens our home
More than the nest whereto apace we strive.
Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive,
In swarms outrushing from the golden comb.
They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam:
The living throb in me, the dead revive.
Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath,
Life glistens on the river of the death.
It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt,
Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs
Of radiance, the radiance enrings:
And this is the soul’s haven to have felt.

Views: 28

Dead Love
by Elizabeth Siddal (1829-1862)

Oh never weep for love that’s dead
Since love is seldom true
But changes his fashion from blue to red,
From brightest red to blue,
And love was born to an early death
And is so seldom true.

Then harbour no smile on your bonny face
To win the deepest sigh.
The fairest words on truest lips
Pass on and surely die,
And you will stand alone, my dear,
When wintry winds draw nigh.

Sweet, never weep for what cannot be,
For this God has not given.
If the merest dream of love were true
Then, sweet, we should be in heaven,
And this is only earth, my dear,
Where true love is not given.

Views: 25