Al Kavaliroj de la Paco
by Julio Baghy(1891-1967)
because today is Esperanto Day

Kavaliroj de l’ Tutmonda Paco,
kun kora soleno salutas mi vin!
Superombru vin transtera graco
en nobla labor’ de komenco ĝis fin’!
Vana preĝo de l’ senpatraj buŝoj,
vidvina funebro, patrina dolor’,
muta veo el sub tombaj pluŝoj
de fratoj murditaj nun ŝvebas al kor’…
Ho, aŭskultu la martiran psalmon!
Tre orfe ĝi ploras en bruo de l’ mond’.
Ĝi inspiru vin por planti palmon
de l’ paco tutmonda kaj bela estont’!

Kavaliroj de l’ Tutmonda Paco,
jam nun fantomadas la nova milit’:
antaŭ pacaj sojloj la minaco
jen skuas la pugnojn kun venĝo kaj spit’.
Por kanonoj la patrinoj naskas
kaj oni edukas la filojn por mort’,
nun ankoraŭ la malic’ sin maskas,
sed baldaŭ la vivon sufokos perfort’.
Monstraj manoj kirlas la vivmaron,
preparas abismojn sub la ondokrest’;
fora fulm’ avertas la Homaron
pri nova tajfuno, pri sanga tempest’.

Kavaliroj de l’ Tutmonda Paco, ’
kirasu la koron per firma konkord’!
De l’ kabana budo ĝis palaco
per agoj homamaj prediku pri l’ ord’!
La cikatrojn de l’ militaj vundoj
kuracu per brava kaj nobla sinten’,
vian ligon en la koraj fundoj
sigelu konsento kun frata manprem’!
Via celo estu—festpreparo,
ne por la moment’, sed por longa jarcent’.
kiam vin benante la Homaro
festenos la Pacon en Nova Sent’.

Views: 43

Upon Nothing
by John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester (1647-1680)

Nothing, thou elder brother even to shade,
That hadst a being ere the world was made,
And (well fixed) art alone of ending not afraid.
Ere time and place were, time and place were not,
When primitive Nothing Something straight begot,
Then all proceeded from the great united—What?
Something, the general attribute of all,
Severed from thee, its sole original,
Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall.
Yet Something did thy mighty power command,
And from thy fruitful emptiness’s hand,
Snatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land.
Matter, the wickedest offspring of thy race,
By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,
And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.
With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join,
Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combine
To spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line.
But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain,
And, bribed by thee, assists thy short-lived reign,
And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again.
Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes,
And the Divine alone with warrant pries
Into thy bosom, where thy truth in private lies,
Yet this of thee the wise may freely say,
Thou from the virtuous nothing takest away,
And to be part of thee the wicked wisely pray.
Great Negative, how vainly would the wise
Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise?
Didst thou not stand to point their dull philosophies.
Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate,
And true or false, the subject of debate,
That perfects, or destroys, the vast designs of Fate,
When they have racked the politician’s breast,
Within thy bosom most securely rest,
And, when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best.
But Nothing, why does Something still permit
That sacred monarchs should at council sit
With persons highly thought at best for nothing fit?
Whist weighty Something modestly abstains
From princes’ coffers, and from statesmen’s brains,
And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns,
Nothing, who dwellest with fools in grave disguise,
For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise,
Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise.
French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,
Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,
Spaniard’s dispatch, Dane’s wit are mainly seen in thee.
The great man’s gratitude to his best friend,
King’s promises, whore’s vows, towards thee they bend,
Flow swiftly to thee, and in thee never end.

Views: 37

Bathsheba’s Song
by George Peele (1556-1596)

Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair.
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me;
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
            Let not my beauty’s fire
            Inflame unstaid desire,
            Nor pierce any bright eye
            That wand’reth lightly.Views: 29

Goliath and David
FOR D.C.T. KILLED AT FRICOURT, MARCH 1916
by Robert Graves (1895-1985)

Once an earlier David took
⁠Smooth pebbles from the brook:
Out between the lines he went
To that one-sided tournament,
A shepherd boy who stood out fine
And young to fight a Philistine
Clad all in brazen mail. He swears
That he’s killed lions, he’s killed bears,
And those that scorn the God of Zion
Shall perish so like bear or lion.
But the historian of that fight
Had not the heart to tell it right.
Striding within javelin range
Goliath marvels at this strange
Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.
David’s clear eye measures the length;
With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee,
Poises a moment thoughtfully,
And hurls with a long vengeful swing.
The pebble, humming from the sling
Like a wild bee, flies a sure line
For the forehead of the Philistine,
Then … but there comes a brazen clink,
And quicker than a man can think
Goliath’s shield parries each cast,
Clang! clang! and clang! was David’s last.
Scorn blazes in the Giant’s eye
Towering unhurt six cubits high.
Says foolish David, “Damn your shield,
And damn my sling, but I’ll not yield.”
He takes his staff of Mamre oak,
A knotted shepherd-staff that’s broke
The skull of many a wolf and fox
Come filching lambs from Jesse’s flocks.
Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh
Can scatter chariots like blown chaff
To rout: but David, calm and brave,
Holds his ground, for God will save.
Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh!
Shame for Beauty’s overthrow!
(God’s eyes are dim, His ears are shut.)
One cruel backhand sabre cut—
“I’m hit, I’m killed,” young David cries,
Throws blindly forward, chokes … and dies.
And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim,
Goliath straddles over him.Views: 28

Hymn on Solitude
by James Thomson (1700-1748)

Hail, mildly pleasing solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But, from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools, and villains fly.
Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper’d talk,
Which innocence, and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.

   A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky;
A shepherd next, you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain;
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face:
Then, calm’d to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking HARFORD’S bloom,
As, with her MUSIDORA, she,
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rival’d nightingale.

   Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born;
And while Meridian fervours beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landskip swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.

   Descending angels bless thy train,
The Virtues of the sage, and swain;
Plain Innocence in white array’d,
Before thee lifts her fearless head:
Religion’s beams around thee shine,
And cheer thy glooms with light divine:
About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania sings to thee.

   Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell!
And in thy deep recesses dwell!
Perhaps from Norwood’s oak-clad hill,
When meditation has her fill,
I just may cast my careless eyes
Where London’s spiry turrets rise,
Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.

Views: 34

The Pied Piper of Hamelin
by Robert Browning (1812-1889)
Because today is Ratcatcher’s Day

                  I.

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
      By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
      But when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
      From vermin, was a pity.

Continue reading …

Views: 35

On My Birthday, July 21
by Matthew Prior (1664-1721)

I, my dear, was born to-day—
So all my jolly comrades say:
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth:
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne’er been born:
I wish to die, even whilst I say—
‘I, my dear, was born to-day.’

I, my dear, was born to-day:
Shall I salute the rising ray,
Well-spring of all my joy and woe?
Clotilda, thou alone dost know.
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades’ mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee smiling say—
‘Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.’

Views: 32

Keen Fitful Gusts
by John Keats (1795-1821)

Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and there
Among the bushes, half leafless and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare;
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair.
For I am brimful of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid’ drown’d;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown’d.

Views: 30

Love and the Butterfly
by Alice Dunbar Nelson (1875-1935)

I heard a merry voice one day
And glancing at my side,
Fair Love, all breathless, flushed with play,
A butterfly did ride.
“Whither away, oh sportive boy?”
I asked, he tossed his head;
Laughing aloud for purest joy,
And past me swiftly sped.

Next day I heard a plaintive cry
And Love crept in my arms;
Weeping he held the butterfly,
Devoid of all its charms.
Sweet words of comfort, whispered I
Into his dainty ears,
But Love still hugged the butterfly,
And bathed its wounds with tears.

Views: 32

Sonnet à Sir Bob
Chien de femme legère, braque anglais pur sang
by Tristan Corbière (1845-1875)

Beau chien, quand je te vois caresser ta maîtresse,
Je grogne malgré moi — pourquoi? — Tu n’en sais rien …
— Ah ! c’est que moi — vois-tu — jamais je ne caresse,
Je n’ai pas de maîtresse, et… ne suis pas beau chien.

— Bob! Bob! — Oh! le fier nom à hurler d’allégresse!…
Si je m’appelais Bob… Elle dit Bob si bien!…
Mais moi je ne suis pas pur sang. — Par maladresse,
On m’a fait braque aussi … mâtiné de chrétien.

— Ô Bob! nous changerons, à la métempsycose:
Prends mon sonnet, moi ta sonnette à faveur rose;
Toi ma peau, moi ton poil — avec puces ou non…

Et je serai sir Bob — Son seul amour fidèle!
Je mordrai les roquets, elle me mordrait, Elle!…
Et j’aurai le collier portant Son petit nom.

Views: 35