Poem of the day

Deidad
by Amado Nervo (1870-1919)

Como duerme la chispa en el guijarro
y la estatua en el barro,
en ti duerme la divinidad.
Tan sólo en un dolor constante y fuerte
al choque, brota de la piedra inerte
el relámpago de la deidad.
No te quejes, por tanto, del destino,
pues lo que en tu interior hay de divino
sólo surge merced a él.
Soporta, si es posible, sonriendo,
la vida que el artista va esculpiendo,
el duro choque del cincel.

Qué importan para ti las horas malas,
si cada hora en tus nacientes alas
pone una pluma bella más?
Ya verás al cóndor en plena altura,
ya verás concluida la escultura,
ya verás, alma, ya verás…

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Poem of the day

The Sweets of Evening
by Christopher Smart (1722-1771)

The sweets of Evening charm the mind,
      Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more’s confin’d,
But exercise with freedom join’d,
      When Phoebus sheathes his ray.

The softer scenes of nature sooth
      The organs of our sight;
The Zephyrs fan the meadows smooth,
And on the brook we build the booth
      In pastoral delight.

While all-serene the summer moon
      Sends glances thro’ the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,
Asteria too shall help her soon
      With voice of skilful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,
      And music, every sound
To lull the sun to his repose;
The skies are coloured like the rose
      With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by Time
      None half so sweet appear,
As those when thoughts themselves sublime,
And with superior natures chime
      In fancy’s highest sphere.

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Poem of the day

Love Lives Beyond the Tomb
by John Clare (1793-1864)

Love lives beyond
The tomb, the earth, which fades like dew-
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.
Love lies in sleep,
The happiness of healthy dreams,
Eve’s dews may weep,
But love delightful seems.
‘Tis seen in flowers,
And in the even’s pearly dew
On earth’s green hours,
And in the heaven’s eternal blue.

’Tis heard in spring
When light and sunbeams, warm and kind,
On angels wing
Bring love and music to the wind.
And where is voice
So young, so beautiful, so sweet
As nature’s choice,
Where spring and lovers meet?
Love lies beyond
The tomb, the earth, the flowers, and dew.
I love the fond,
The faithful, young, and true.

Views: 0

Poem of the day

A Gillyflower of Gold
by William Morris (1834-1896)

A golden gillyflower to-day
I wore upon my helm alway,
And won the prize of this tourney.
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

However well Sir Giles might sit,
His sun was weak to wither it,
Lord Miles’s blood was dew on it:
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Although my spear in splinters flew,
From John’s steel-coat my eye was true;
I wheel’d about, and cried for you,
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Yea, do not doubt my heart was good,
Though my sword flew like rotten wood,
To shout, although I scarcely stood,
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

My hand was steady too, to take
My axe from round my neck, and break
John’s steel-coat up for my love’s sake.
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

When I stood in my tent again,
Arming afresh, I felt a pain
Take hold of me, I was so fain—
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

To hear: “Honneur aux fils des preux”
Right in my ears again, and shew
The gillyflower blossom’d new.
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

The Sieur Guillaume against me came,
His tabard bore three points of flame
From a red heart: with little blame—
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Our tough spears crackled up like straw;
He was the first to turn and draw
His sword, that had nor speck nor flaw,—
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

But I felt weaker than a maid,
And my brain, dizzied and afraid,
Within my helm a fierce tune play’d,—
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Until I thought of your dear head,
Bow’d to the gillyflower bed,
The yellow flowers stain’d with red;—
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Crash! how the swords met, “giroflée!”
The fierce tune in my helm would play,
“La belle! la belle! jaune giroflée!”
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Once more the great swords met again,
“La belle! la belle!” but who fell then?
Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down ten;—
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

And as with mazed and unarm’d face,
Toward my own crown and the Queen’s place,
They led me at a gentle pace—
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

I almost saw your quiet head
Bow’d o’er the gillyflower bed,
The yellow flowers stain’d with red—
      Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Views: 11

The Republicans are in a bind that’s more than rhetorical

From DYNUZ: “The reason voters are turned off by the Republican position on abortion has less to do with language and more to do with the actual consequences of putting tight restrictions on reproductive rights. Countless Americans have direct experience with difficult and complicated pregnancies; countless Americans have direct experience with abortion care; and countless Americans are rightfully horrified by the stories of injury and cruelty coming out of anti-abortion states.”

It is beyond obvious at this point that abortion is the Achilles? heel of the Republican Party. The prospect of

Views: 11

Poem of the day

Dear Harp of My Country
by Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
      The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long,
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
      And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
      Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
      That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,
      This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
      Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine;

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
      Have throbbed at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
      And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

Views: 2

Poem of the day

Le Vase brisée
by René Armand François “Sully” Prudhome (1839-1907)

Le vase où meurt cette verveine
D’un coup d’éventail fut fêlé;
Le coup dut effleurer à peine:
Aucun bruit ne l’a révélé.

Mais la légère meurtrissure,
Mordant le cristal chaque jour,
D’une marche invisible et sûre
En a fait lentement le tour.

Son eau fraîche a fui goutte à goutte,
Le suc des fleurs s’est épuisé;
Personne encore ne s’en doute;
N’y touchez pas, il est brisé.

Souvent aussi la main qu’on aime,
Effleurant le cœur, le meurtrit;
Puis le cœur se fend de lui-même,
La fleur de son amour périt;

Toujours intact aux yeux du monde,
Il sent croître et pleurer tout bas
Sa blessure fine et profonde;
Il est brisé, n’y touchez pas.

Views: 2