Von der Freude
by Johann Nikolaus Götz (1721-1781)
Sage, sprach ich, holde Freude!
Sage doch, was fliehst du so?
Hat man dich, so fliehst du wieder!
Niemals wird man deiner froh.
Danke, sprach sie, dem Verhängnis!
Alle Götter lieben mich;
Wenn ich ohne Flügel wäre,
Sie behielten mich für sich.
Views: 21
Death
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
1.
They die—the dead return not—Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye—
They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,
Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone—
Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs—alone remain.
2.
Misery, my sweetest friend—oh, weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not!
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling’s door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs—alone remain.
Views: 19
O Stay, my Love
by Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816)
O Stay, my love! my William, dear!
Ah! whither art thou flying?
Nor think’st, thou of my parents here,
Nor heed’st thy Susan’s sighing?
Thy country’s cause and honour’s call,
Are words that but deceive thee:
Thou seest my tears, how fast they fall—
Thou must not, William! leave me.
Who’ll o’er them watch, if thus we part,
In sickness or in sorrow?
In some cold shed, with breaking heart,
Where will they comfort borrow;
Neglected left, no William nigh,
To cheer, protect, relieve them;
I helpless thrown aside to die:
Thou must not, William! leave them.
Ah! me—and think a summer flown,
Perhaps we part for ever;
The fondest hearts that e’er were known,
Unpitying death will sever.
Then why e’er waste or throw away?
’Twill pass too soon, believe me,
Our day of love, our little day—
Thou must not, William! leave me.
Views: 33
To a Lady Sitting Before Her Glass
by Elijah Fenton (1683-1730)
So smooth and clear the Fountain was
In which his Face Narcissus spy’d,
When gazing in that liquid Glass,
He for himself despair’d and dy’d:
Nor, Chloris, can you safer see
Your own Perfections here than he.
The Lark before the Mirror plays,
Which some deceitful Swain has set,
Pleas’d with her self she fondly stays
To die deluded in the Net:
Love may such Frauds for you prepare,
Your self the Captive, and the Snare.
But, Chloris, whilst you there review
Those Graces opening in their Bloom,
Think how Disease and Age pursue,
Your riper Glories to consume:
Then sighing you would wish your Glass
Cou’d shew to Chloris what she was.
Let Pride no more give Nature Law,
But free the Youth your Pow’r enslaves:
Her Form, like yours, bright Cynthia saw
Reflected in the Crystal Waves,
Yet priz’d not all her Charms above
The Pleasure of Endymion’s love.
No longer let your Glass supply
Too just an Emblem of your Breast;
Where oft’ to my deluded Eye
Love’s image has appear’d imprest;
But play’d so lightly on your Mind,
It left no lasting Print behind.
Views: 27
Changements à vue
by Jean Cocteau (1889-1963)
Clef de sol, n’êtes-vous la clef des champs ? Je raye
Ta vitrine, fleuriste éprise de wagons
La mer, la mer murmure au fond de notre oreille
S’il faut partir je pars, tu pars, nous naviguons
Ces livres sont trop gros pour la belle qui charme
Les serpents enroulés aux arbres interdits
Méfions-nous, souvent le serpent est une arme
Sa tête un révolver dans la main des bandits
L’hercule du tréteau, qui mange de la neige
Vous a vaincu, monsieur l’athlète déloyal!
Rendez cinquante francs, on vous tendait un piège
On ne s’attaque pas au grand tigre royal
La princesse imprudente a meublé sa piscine
Avec des anges nus, habitants de Chaillot
Dame, si vous voulez que l’on vous assassine
C’est simple : montrez-leur votre grâce en maillot
Dans ce chiffre superbe écrit en majuscules
On voit singes grimpeurs, œuvre de l’amiral
Qui dessinait parfois, ou bien, au crépuscule
En bouteille mettait lui-même son journal.
Views: 20
Der Zeisig
by Christian Fürchtegott Gellert (1715-1769)
Ein Zeisig war’s und eine Nachtigall,
Die einst zu gleicher Zeit vor Damons Fenster hingen.
Die Nachtigall fing an, ihr göttlich Lied zu singen,
Und Damons kleinem Sohn gefiel der süße Schall.
»Ach welcher singt von beiden doch so schön?
Den Vogel möcht’ ich wirklich sehn!«
Der Vater macht ihm diese Freude,
Er nimmt die Vögel gleich herein.
»Hier«, spricht er, »sind sie alle beide;
Doch welcher wird der schöne Sänger sein?
Getraust du dich, mir das zu sagen?«
Der Sohn läßt sich nicht zweimal fragen,
Schnell weist er auf den Zeisig hin:
»Der«, spricht er, »muß es sein, so wahr ich ehrlich bin.
Wie schön und gelb ist sein Gefieder!
Drum singt er auch so schöne Lieder;
Dem andern sieht man’s gleich an seinen Federn an,
Daß er nichts Kluges singen kann.«
Views: 20
Leisure
by William Henry Davies (1871-1940)
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
Views: 20
Das Rosenband
by Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock (1724-1803)
Im Frühlingsschatten fand ich sie;
Da band ich Sie mit Rosenbändern:
Sie fühlt’ es nicht und schlummerte.
Ich sah sie an; mein Leben hing
Mit diesem Blick an ihrem Leben:
Ich fühlt’ es wohl, und wußt’ es nicht.
Doch lispelt’ ich ihr sprachlos zu,
Und rauschte mit den Rosenbändern:
Da wachte sie vom Schlummer auf.
Sie sah mich an; ihr Leben hing
Mit diesem Blick’ an meinem Leben,
Und um uns ward Elysium.
Views: 27
To a Young Lady
by Richard Savage (1698-1743)
Polly, from me, though now a love-sick youth,
Nay, though a poet, hear the voice of truth!
Polly, you’re not a beauty, yet you’re pretty;
So grave, yet gay; so silly, yet so witty;
A heart of softness, yet a tongue of satire;
You’ve cruelty, yet, e’en with that, good-nature:
Now you are free, and now reserved awhile;
Now a forced frown betrays a willing smile.
Reproach’d for absence, yet your sight denied;
My tongue you silence, yet my silence chide.
How would you praise me, should your sex defame!
Yet, should they praise, grow jealous, and exclaim.
If I despair, with some kind look you bless;
But if I hope, at once all hope suppress.
You scorn ; yet should my passion change or fail,
Too late you’d whimper out a softer tale.
You love; yet from your lover’s wish retire;
Doubt, yet discern; deny, and yet desire.
Such, Polly, are your sex—part truth, part fiction,
Some thought, much whim, and all a contradiction.
Views: 59
The New Dodo
by Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849)
Squats on a toad-stool under a tree
A bodiless childfull of life in the gloom,
Crying with frog voice, “What shall I be?
Poor unborn ghost, for my mother killed me
Scarcely alive in her wicked womb.
What shall I be? shall I creep to the egg
That’s cracking asunder yonder by Nile,
And with eighteen toes,
And a snuff-taking nose,
Make an Egyptian crocodile?
Sing, ‘Catch a mummy by the leg
And crunch him with an upper jaw,
Wagging tail and clenching claw;
Take a bill-full from my craw,
Neighbour raven, caw, O caw,
Grunt, my crocky, pretty maw!
“Swine, shall I be you? Thou’rt a dear dog;
But for a smile, and kiss, and pout,
I much prefer your black-lipped snout,
Little, gruntless, fairy hog,
Godson of the hawthorn hedge.
For, when Ringwood snuffs me out,
And ’gins my tender paunch to grapple,
Sing, ‘’Twixt your ancles visage wedge,
And roll up like an apple.’
“Serpent Lucifer, how do you do?
Of your worms and your snakes I’d be one or two;
For in this dear planet of wool and of leather
‘Tis pleasant to need neither shirt, sleeve, nor shoe,
And have arm, leg, and belly together.
Then aches your head, or are you lazy?
Sing, ‘Round your neck your belly wrap,
Tail-a-top, and make your cap
Any bee and daisy.’
“I’ll not be a fool, like the nightingale
Who sits up all midnight without any ale,
Making a noise with his nose;
Nor a camel, although ’tis a beautiful back;
Nor a duck, notwithstanding the music of quack,
And the webby, mud-patting toes.
I’ll be a new bird with the head of an ass,
Two pigs’ feet, two mens’ feet, and two of a hen;
Devil-winged; dragon-bellied; grave-jawed, because grass
Is a beard that’s soon shaved, and grows seldom again
Before it is summer; so cow all the rest;
The new Dodo is finished. O! come to my nest.”
Views: 62