Paa Memphis Station
by Johannes Jensen (1873-1950)

Halvt vaagen og halvt blundende
slået af en klam Virkelighed, men endnu borte
i en indre Gus af danaidiske Drømme
staar jeg og hakker Tænder
paa Memphis Station, Tennessee.
Det regner.

Natten er saa øde og udslukt
og Regnen hudfletter Jorden
med en vidløs, dunkel Energi.
Alting er klægt og uigennemtrængeligt.

Hvorfor holder Toget her Time efter Time?
Hvorfor er min Skæbne gaaet i staa her?
Skal jeg flygte fra Regnen og Aandsfortærelsen
i Danmark, Indien og Japan
for at regne inde og raadne i Memphis,
Tennessee, U.S.A.?

Og nu dages det. Lyset siver glædesløst
ind over dette vaade Fængsel.
Dagen blotter ubarmhjertigt
de kolde Skinner og al den sorte Søle
Ventesalen med Chokoladeautomat,
Appelsinskaller, Cigar- og Tændstikstumper
Dagen griner igennem med spyende Tagrender
og et evigt Gitter af Regn,
Regn, siger jeg fra Himmel og til Jord.

Hvor Verden er døv og uflyttelig,
hvor Skaberen er talentløs!
Og hvorfor bliver jeg ved at betale mit Kontingent
til denne plebejiske Kneippkur af en Tilværelse!

Stille! Se hvor Maskinen,
den vældige Tingest, staar rolig og syder
og hyller sig i Røg, den er taalmodig.
Tænd piben paa fastende liv,
forband Gud og svælg din Smærte!

Gaa så dog hen og bliv i Memphis!
Dit liv er jo alligevel ikke andet
end et surt Regnvejr, og din Skæbne
var altid at hænge forsinket
i en eller anden miserabel Ventesal –
Bliv i Memphis, Tennessee!

For inde i et af disse plakathujende Huse
venter Lykken dig, Lykken,
hvis du blot kan æde din Utaalmodighed –
også her sover en rund ung Jomfru
med Øret begravet i sit Haar,
hun vil komme dig i møde
en fin dag på Gaden
som en bølge af Vellugt
med en Mine som om hun kendte dig.

Er det ikke Foraar?
Falder Regnen ikke frodigt?
Lyder den ikke som en forelsket Mumlen,
en lang dæmpet Kærlighedspassiar
Mund mod Mund
mellem Regnen og Jorden?
Dagen gryede saa sorgfuldt,
men se nu lyser Regnfaldet!
Under du ikke Dagen dens Kampret?
Det er dog nu lyst. Og der slaar Muldlugt
ind mellem Perronens rustne Jærnstivere
blandet med Regnstøvets ramme Aande –
en Foraarsanelse –
er det ikke trøstigt?

Og se nu, se hvor Mississipi
i sin seng af oversvømmede Skove
vaagner mod Dagen!
Se hvor Kæmpefloden nyder sin Bugtning!
Hvor den flommer kongeligt i Bue og svinger Flaader
af Træer og laset Drivtømmer i sine Hvirvler!
Se hvor den fører en uhyre Hjuldamper
i sin Syndflodsfavn
som en Danser, der er herre paa Gulvet!
Se de sunkne Næs – Oh hvilken urmægtig Ro
over Landskabet af druknede Skove!
Ser du ikke, hvor Strømmens Morgenvande
klæder sig milebredt med Dagens tarvelige Lys
og vandrer rundt under de svangre Skyer!

Fat dig også du, Uforsonlige!
Vil du aldrig glemme, at man lovede dig Evigheden?
Forholder du Jorden din arme Taknemlighed?
Hvad vil du da med dit Elskerhjærte?

Fat dig og bliv i Memphis,
Meld dig som Borger paa Torvet,
gaa ind og livsassurer dig imellem de andre,
betal din Præmie af Lumpenhed,
at de kan vide sig sikre for dig,
og du ikke skal blive hældt ud af Foreningen.
Gør kur til hin Jomfru med Roser og Guldring
og start et Savskæreri som andre Mennesker.
Hank rolig op i Gummistøvlerne …
Se dig ud, smøg din vise Pibe
i sphinxforladte Memphis …

Ah, der kommer det elendige Godstog,
som vi har ventet paa i seks Timer.
Det kommer langsomt ind – med knuste Sider,
det pifter svagt, Vognene lammer paa tre Hjul,
og de sprængte Ruf drypper af Jord og Slam.
Men paa Tenderen mellem Kullene
ligger fire Skikkelser
dækket af blodvaade Frakker.

Da pruster vor store Ekspresmaskine,
gaar lidt frem og standser dybt sukkende
og staar færdig til Spring. Sporet er frit.

Og vi rejser videre
gennem de oversvømmede Skove
under regnens gabende Sluser.

Views: 41

A Dream Within a Dream
by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow—
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Views: 30

A Kiss
by Austin Dobson (1840-1921)

Rose kissed me today.
      Will she kiss me tomorrow?
Let it be as it may,
Rose kissed me today.
But the pleasure gives way
      To a savor of sorrow—
Rose kissed me today—
      Will she kiss me tomorrow?

Views: 36

Rugby Chapel
by Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)

Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn evening. The field
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts
Of withered leaves, and the elms,
Fade into dimness apace,
Silent; hardly a shout
From a few boys late at their play!
The lights come out in the street,
In the schoolroom windows; but cold,
Solemn, unlighted, austere,
Through the gathering darkness, arise
The chapel-walls, in whose bound
Thou, my father! art laid.

Continue reading …

Views: 26

The Call of the Wild
by Robert Service (1874-1958)

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,
⁠         Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
⁠         Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
⁠         Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it;
⁠         Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,
⁠         The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
⁠         And learned to know the desert’s little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges,
⁠         Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
⁠         Then listen to the Wild—it’s calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
⁠         (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
⁠         Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map’s void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
⁠         Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
⁠         Then hearken to the Wild—it’s wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
⁠         Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
“Done things” just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
⁠         Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?
⁠         (You’ll never hear it in the family pew.)
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things—
⁠         Then listen to the Wild—it’s calling you.

They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
⁠         They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you’re a credit to their teaching—
⁠         But can’t you hear the Wild?—it’s calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
⁠         Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There’s a whisper on the night-wind, there’s a star agleam to guide us,
⁠         And the Wild is calling, calling . . . let us go.

Views: 62

To a Segar
by Samuel Low (1765-?)

Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil and strife,
Charm against discontent and wrinkled care,
Who knows thy power can never know despair;
Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life:
When cares oppress, or when the busy day
Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff
Can drive ev’n want and lassitude away,
And give a mourner happiness enough.
From thee when curling clouds of incense rise,
They hide each evil that in prospect lies;
But when in evanescence fades thy smoke,
Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother?
If thou evaporate, the charm is broke,
Till I, departing taper, light another.

Views: 42

The Dead
by Jones Very (1813-1880)

I see them crowd on crowd they walk the earth
Dry, leafless trees no Autumn wind laid bare,
And in their nakedness find cause for mirth,
And all unclad would winter’s rudeness dare;
No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,
Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear;
Their hearts the living God have ceased to know,
Who gives the spring time to th’expectant year;
They mimic life, as if from him to steal
His glow of health to paint the livid cheek;
They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel,
That with a seeming heart their tongue may speak;
And in their show of life more dead they live
Than those that to the earth with many tears they give.

Views: 41

Amitié
by Victor de Laprade (1812-1883)

Tous vos dieux sont les miens; vous aimez ce que j’aime,
Nos espoirs sont pareils, notre doute est le même;
Où vous le signalez, je vois aussi le mal,
Et nous marchons tous deux vers le même idéal.

Dans l’océan divin cherchant les perles neuves
Et les parcelles d’or dans le sable des fleuves,
Au fond des grandes eaux nous plongeons de concert,
Nous gardons en commun le trésor découvert.
Quand l’idée, en son vol, échappe à mes pieds frêles,
Mon âme, pour monter, vous emprunte vos ailes.
Aux régions d’en bas, je m’égare souvent;
Vous que Dieu mène et qui pénétrez plus avant,
Quand mon esprit s’arrête aux choses relatives,
Vous m’ouvrez tout à coup de larges perspectives,
Et, dans un horizon où vous seul avez lu,
Par delà nos soleils, vous montrez l’absolu.

Quand j’écris, je ne sais—tant l’un sent comme l’autre—
Si la page tracée est mon œuvre ou la vôtre.
De ces vers fraternels, je vous rends la moitié,
Et, sur l’humble fronton, j’inscris notre amitié.

Marchons unis toujours; la nuit tombe, nous sommes
Des étrangers perdus dans la cité des hommes;
Nous y parlons tout seuls une langue à nous deux,
Et nous comprenons mal ce qu’ils disent entre eux.
Nous ne sommes pas faits aux chemins de traverse;
Le but n’est pas le même où la route est diverse;
Si des noirs carrefours nous tentons les hasards,
Nous serons terrassés et broyés par les chars.

Veillons! plus d’un assaut se prépare dans l’ombre;
Le présent est mauvais et l’avenir plus sombre,
Plein d’outrages, d’effroi, de labeurs desséchants…
—Nous pourrons être heureux si nous sommes méchants!
Mais, ô frère en douleurs, restons dans notre voie,
Sans renier, pourtant, ni blasphémer la joie.
Il est, même ici-bas, des vestiges de Dieu,
Et le monde meilleur, parfois, s’y montre un peu;
Il est dans la tourmente, au bout de la mer triste,
Un phare ardent et fixe allumé pour l’artiste
Et versant des rayons pleins de sérénité…
—Viens! homme de désir, marchons vers la beauté!

Views: 37

“He seems like a god” (Fragment 31)
by Sappho (c. 630-570 BCE)

φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θέοισιν
ἔμμεν᾽ ὤνηρ, ὄττις ἐνάντιός τοι
ἰσδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί-
σας ὐπακούει

καὶ γελαίσας ἰμέροεν, τό μ᾽ ἦ μὰν
καρδίαν ἐν στήθεσιν ἐπτόαισεν·
ὠς γὰρ ἔς σ᾽ ἴδω βρόχε᾽, ὤς με φώναι-
σ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ἒν ἔτ᾽ εἴκει,

ἀλλ᾽ ἄκαν μὲν γλῶσσα ἔαγε, λέπτον
δ᾽ αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμηκεν,
ὀππάτεσσι δ᾽ οὐδ᾽ ἒν ὄρημμ᾽, ἐπιρρόμ-
βεισι δ᾽ ἄκουαι,

ἀ δέ μ᾽ ἴδρως ψῦχρος κακχέεται, τρόμος δὲ
παῖσαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίας
ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ᾽ ὀλίγω ᾽πιδεύης
φαίνομ᾽ ἔμ᾽ αὔται·

ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον ἐπεὶ καὶ πένητα …

Views: 38

Song of Quietness
by Robinson Jeffers (1887-1961)

Drink deep, drink deep of quietness,
      And on the margins of the sea
Remember not thine old distress
      Nor all the miseries to be.
Calmer than mists, and cold
As they, that fold on fold
Up the dim valley are rolled,
      Learn thou to be.

The Past—it was a feverish dream,
      A drunken slumber full of tears.
The Future—O what wild wings gleam,
      Wheeled in the van of desperate years!
Thou lovedst the evening: dawn
Glimmers; the night is gone:—
What dangers lure thee on,
      What dreams more fierce?

But meanwhile, now the east is gray,
      The hour is pale, the cocks yet dumb,
Be glad before the birth of day,
      Take thy brief rest ere morning come:
Here in the beautiful woods
All night the sea-mist floods,—
Thy last of solitudes,
      Thy yearlong home.

Views: 305