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: 39

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

À un Poète mort
by Charles Leconte de Lisle (1818-1894)

Toi dont les yeux erraient, altérés de lumière,
De la couleur divine au contour immortel
Et de la chair vivante à la splendeur du ciel,
Dors en paix dans la nuit qui scelle ta paupière.

Voir, entendre, sentir? Vent, fumée et poussière.
Aimer? La coupe d’or ne contient que du fiel.
Comme un Dieu plein d’ennui qui déserte l’autel,
Rentre et disperse-toi dans l’immense matière.

Sur ton muet sépulcre et tes os consumés
Qu’un autre verse ou non les pleurs accoutumés,
Que ton siècle banal t’oublie ou te renomme;

Moi, je t’envie, au fond du tombeau calme et noir,
D’être affranchi de vivre et de ne plus savoir
La honte de penser et l’horreur d’être un homme!

Views: 27

Abend
by Andreas Gryphius (1616-1664)

Der schnelle Tag ist hin; die Nacht schwingt ihre Fahn’
Und führt die Sternen auf. Der Menschen müde Scharen
Verlassen Feld und Werk; wo Tier’ und Vögel waren,
Trau’rt itzt die Einsamkeit. Wie ist die Zeit vertan!

Der Port naht mehr und mehr sich zu der Glieder Kahn,
Gleich wie dies Licht verfiel, so wird in wenig Jahren
Ich, du, und was man hat, und was man sieht, hinfahren.
Dies Leben kommt mir vor als eine Rennebahn.

Laß, höchster Gott, mich doch nicht auf dem Laufplatz gleiten!
Laß mich nicht Schmerz, nicht Pracht, nicht Lust, nicht Angst verleiten!
Dein ewig heller Glanz sei vor und neben mir!

Laß, wenn der müde Leib entschläft, die Seele wachen,
Und wenn der letzte Tag wird mit mir Abend machen,
So reiß mich aus dem Tal der Finsternis zu dir.

Views: 32

The Talented Man
by Winthrop Mackworth Praed (1802-1839)

Dear Alice! you’ll laugh when you know it,—
      Last week, at the Duchess’s ball,
I danced with the clever new poet,—
      You’ve heard of him,—Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
      I wish you had seen Lady Anne!
It really was very romantic,
      He is such a talanted man!

He came up from Brazenose College,
      Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge
      Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
      As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
      I’m sure he’s a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful;—
      Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
      The stories not always quite true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
      May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer,—good gracious!
      Chez nous—in a talented man.

He sneers,—how my Alice would scold him! —
      At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed—only think!—when I told him
      How we cried o’er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
      I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment’s quite out of fashion,
      It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
      Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt—which is silly—to quarrel,
      And fond—which is sad—of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
      For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager’s malice;—
      She does hate a talented man!

He’s hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
      Is all that these eyes can adore;
He’s lame,—but Lord Byron was lame, love,
      And dumpy,—but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice,—such a voice! my sweet creature,
      It’s like your Aunt Lucy’s toucan:
But oh! what’s a tone or a feature,
      When once one’s a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season,
      Has talked of Sir Geoffrey’s estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
      He has been less horrid of late.
But today, when we drive in the carriage,
      I’ll tell her to lay down her plan;—
If ever I venture on marriage,
      It must be a talented man!

P.S.—I have found, on reflection,
      One fault in my friend,—entre nous;
Without it, he’d just be perfection;—
      Poor fellow, he has not a sou!
And so, when he comes in September
      To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I’ve promised mamma to remember
      He’s only a talented man!

Views: 27

Lines on the French Revolution (from The Prelude)
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

O pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, us who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very Heaven! O times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights
When most intent on making of herself
A prime enchantress—to assist the work,
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole Earth,
The beauty wore of promise—that which sets
(As at some moments might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of Paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The play-fellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Their ministers,—who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it;—they, too, who of gentle mood
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves;—
Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Did both find helpers to their hearts’ desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish,—
Were called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia,—subterranean fields,—
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us,—the place where, in the end,
We find our happiness, or not at all!

Views: 32

The Peasant Poet
by John Clare (1793-1864)

He loved the brook’s soft sound,
      The swallow swimming by.
He loved the daisy-covered ground,
      The cloud-bedappled sky.
To him the dismal storm appeared
      The very voice of God;
And when the evening rack was reared
      Stood Moses with his rod.
And everything his eyes surveyed,
      The insects i’ the brake,
Were creatures God Almighty made,
      He loved them for His sake–
A silent man in life’s affairs,
      A thinker from a boy,
A peasant in his daily cares,
      A poet in his joy.

Views: 24

Perception of an object costs
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Perception of an object costs
Precise the Object’s loss —
Perception in itself a Gain
Replying to its Price —
The Object Absolute — is nought —
Perception sets it fair
And then upbraids a Perfectness
That situates so far —

Views: 32

Sonnet XXV from Regrets
by Joachim du Bellay (c. 1522-1560)

Malheureux l’an, le mois, le jour, l’heure, et le poinct,
Et malheureuse soit la flatteuse esperance,
Quand pour venir ici j’abandonnay la France:
La France, et mon Anjou dont le desir me poingt.

Vraiment d’un bon oyseau guidé je ne fus point,
Et mon cœur me donnoit assez signifiance,
Que le ciel estoit plein de mauvaise influence,
Et que Mars estoit lors à Saturne conjoint.

Cent fois le bon advis lors m’en voulut distraire,
Mais toujours le destin me tiroit au contraire:
Et si mon desir n’eust aveuglé ma raison,

N’estoit-ce pas assez pour rompre mon voyage,
Quand sur le seuil de l’huis, d’un sinistre presage,
Je me blessay le pied sortant de ma maison?

Views: 23

The Parterre
by Edward Henry Palmer (1840-1882)

I don’t know any greatest treat
As sit him in a gay parterre,
And sniff one up the perfume sweet
Of every roses buttoning there.

It only want my charming miss
Who make to blush the self red rose;
Oh! I have envy of to kiss
The end’s tip of her splendid nose.

Oh! I have envy of to be
What grass ’neath her pantoffle push,
And too much happy seemeth me
The margaret which her vestige crush.

But I will meet her nose at nose,
And take occasion for her hairs,
And indicate her all my woes,
That she in fine agree my prayers.

Views: 16