À la Liberté
by Marie-Joseph Chénier (1764-1811)

Descends, ô liberté! fille de la nature:
Le peuple a reconquis son pouvoir immortel;
Sur les pompeux débris de l’antique imposture
Ses mains relèvent ton autel.

Venez, vainqueurs des rois: l’Europe vous contemple;
Venez; sur les faux dieux étendez vos succès;
Toi, sainte liberté, viens habiter ce temple;
Sois la déesse des Français.

Ton aspect réjouit le mont le plus sauvage.
Au milieu des rochers enfante les moissons;
Embelli par tes mains, le plus affreux rivage
Rit, environné de glaçons.

Tu doubles les plaisirs, les venus, le génie;
L’homme est toujours vainqueur sous tes saints étendards;
Avant de te connaître, il ignorait la vie:
Il est créé par tes regards.

Au peuple souverain tous les rois font la guerre;
Qu’à tes pieds, ô déesse, ils tombent désormais!
Bientôt sur les cercueils des tyrans de la terre
Les peuples vont jurer la paix.

Views: 44

Song (“Why so pale and wan, fond lover?”)
by John Suckling (1609-1642)

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
      Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
      Looking ill prevail?
      Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
      Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
      Saying nothing do’t?
      Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move:
      This cannot take her.
If of herself she cannot love,
      Nothing can make her:
      The devil take her!

Views: 47

The Painted Ceiling
by Amy Lowell (1874-1925)

My Grandpapa lives in a wonderful house
      With a great many windows and doors,
There are stairs that go up, and stairs that go down,
      And such beautiful, slippery floors.

But of all of the rooms, even mother’s and mine,
      And the bookroom, and parlour and all,
I like the green dining-room so much the best
      Because of its ceiling and wall.

Right over your head is a funny round hole
      With apples and pears falling through;
There’s a big bunch of grapes all purply and sweet,
      And melons and pineapples too.

They tumble and tumble, but never come down
      Though I’ve stood underneath a long while
With my mouth open wide, for I always have hoped
      Just a cherry would drop from the pile.

No matter how early I run there to look
      It has always begun to fall through;
And one night when at bedtime I crept in to see,
      It was falling by candle-light too.

I am sure they are magical fruits, and each one
      Makes you hear things, or see things, or go
Forever invisible; but it’s no use,
      And of course I shall just never know.

For the ladder’s too heavy to lift, and the chairs
      Are not nearly so tall as I need.
I’ve given up hope, and I feel I shall die
      Without having accomplished the deed.

It’s a little bit sad, when you seem very near
      To adventures and things of that sort,
Which nearly begin, and then don’t; and you know
      It is only because you are short.

Views: 52

Trust Thou Thy Love
by John Ruskin (1819-1900)

Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?
Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?
Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;
Fail, Sun and Breath!–yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.

Views: 66

The Sorrows of Werther
by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)

Werther had a love for Charlotte
      Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
      She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,
      And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
      Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
      And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
      And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
      Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
      Went on cutting bread and butter.

Views: 52

A Zacinto
by Ugo Foscolo (1778-1827)

Nè più mai toccherò le sacre sponde
   Ove il mio corpo fanciulletto giacque,
   Zacinto mia, che te specchi nell’onde
   Del greco mar, da cui vergine nacque
Venere, e fea quelle isole feconde
   Col suo primo sorriso, onde non tacque
   Le tue limpide nubi e le tue fronde
   L’inclito verso di Colui che l’acque
Cantò fatali, ed il diverso esiglio
   Per cui bello di fama e di sventura
   Baciò la sua petrosa Itaca Ulisse.
Tu non altro che il canto avrai del figlio,
   O materna mia terra; a noi prescrisse
   Il fato illacrimata sepoltura.

Views: 25

Flyttfåglarna
by Johan Ludvig Runeberg (1804-1877)

I, flyktande gäster på främmande strand,
när söken I åter ert fädernesland?
När sippan sig döljer
i fädernedalen
och bäcken besköljer
den grönskande alen,
då lyfta de vingen,
då komma de små;
väg visar dem ingen
i villande blå;
de hitta ändå.

De finna så säkert den saknade nord,
där våren dem väntar med hydda och bord,
där källornas spenar
de trötta förfriska
och vaggande grenar
om njutningar viska,
där hjärtat får drömma
vid nattsolens gång
och kärleken glömma
vid lekar och sång,
att vägen var lång.

De lyckliga glada, de bygga i ro
bland mossiga tallar sitt fredliga bo;
och stormarne, krigen,
bekymren och sorgen,
de känna ej stigen
till värnlösa borgen,
där glädjen behöver
blott majdagens brand
och natten, som söver
med rosende hand
de späda ibland.

Du, flyktande ande på främmande strand,
när söker du åter ditt fädernesland?
När palmerna mogna
i fädernevärlden,
då börjar du, trogna,
den fröjdfulla färden,
då lyfter du vingen
som fåglarna små;
väg visar dig ingen
i villande blå;
du hittar ändå.

Views: 49

The Ground-Swell
by E.J. Pratt (1882-1964)

Three times we heard it calling with a low,
      Insistent note; at ebb-tide on the noon;
      And at the hour of dusk, when the red moon
Was rising and the tide was on the flow;
Then, at the hour of midnight once again,
      Though we had entered in and shut the door
      And drawn the blinds, it crept up from the shore
And smote upon a bedroom window-pane;
Then passed away as some dull pang that grew
Out of the void before Eternity
      Had fashioned out an edge for human grief;
Before the winds of God had learned to strew
His harvest-sweepings on a winter sea
      To feed the primal hungers of a reef.

Views: 34

Seele des Lebens
by Georg Trakl (1887-1914)

Verfall, der weich das Laub umdüstert,
Es wohnt im Wald sein weites Schweigen.
Bald scheint ein Dorf sich geisterhaft zu neigen.
Der Schwester Mund in schwarzen Zweigen flüstert.

Der Einsame wird bald entgleiten,
Vielleicht ein Hirt auf dunklen Pfaden
Ein Tier tritt leise aus den Baumarkaden,
Indes die Lider sich vor Gottheit weiten.

Der blaue Fluß rinnt schön hinunter,
Gewölke sich am Abend zeigen;
Die Seele auch in engelhaftem Schweigen.
Vergängliche Gebilde gehen unter.

Views: 26

Dear Heart, Why Will You Use Me So?
by James Joyce (1882-1941)

Dear heart, why will you use me so?
      Dear eyes that gently me upbraid,
Still are you beautiful — but O,
      How is your beauty raimented!

Through the clear mirror of your eyes,
      Through the soft cry of kiss to kiss,
Desolate winds assail with cries
      The shadowy garden where love is.

And soon shall love dissolved be
      When over us the wild winds blow —
But you, dear love, too dear to me,
      Alas! why will you use me so?

Views: 42