Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] 3. Mit einem phantastischen Lichtstrahl Erleuchtet der Mond die krystallnen Flacons. Confirmed with Die Lyrik des Auslandes in neuerer Zeit , ed. Durch die Lichtung schleichen Winde, Leis bewegen sie den Strom. Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] 5. Haftest mir an den Gedanken, Wie ein blasser Tropfen Bluts! Blut aus deinen magren Brusten Hat des Schwertes Wut vergossen.
Deine ewig frischen Wunden Gleichen Augen, rot und offen. Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] 7. Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] 8. Ein geschlossnes Zauberbuch, Ruht der Horizont - verschwiegen. Finstre, schwarze Riesenfalter. Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] 9. Mein Lachen Hab ich verlernt! Schwarz weht die Flagge Mir nun vom Mast. Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] Heilge Kreuze sind die Verse, Dran die Dichter stumm verbluten.
Wischt und wischt, doch - bringt ihn nicht herunter! View original text without footnotes 1 Ramrath: "kratzt" Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] Christian Morgenstern. Dich hab ich vernommen! Violets are already dreaming, and will soon arrive. In the distance - a soft harp tone! Spring, yes it is you! It is you that I have heard! She was appointed the fourth Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow-- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand-- How few! O God! Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? Edgar Allan Poe For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills. And April's in the west wind, and daffodils. Comment moustique, ich hoffe, es geht dir gut Buttercup Fairy Poem I am buttercup, with compassion, no pain I will help to make magic again. Comment Where the passion flower grows Lay down on your pillow and turn the lights down low let me take you to the garden where the passion flower grows.
Moore born in June , in Glasgow Scotland. Dezember in Hull war ein englischer Dichter, Autor und Jazzkritiker. Larkin gilt als einer der bedeutendsten englischen Dichter des Norwegian wood. I sat on a rug Biding my time, Drinking her wine. The Beatles: Rubber Soul album, December The song lyrics have been published on a number of webpages, e. Comment Letzthin habe ich ein witziges Liebesgedicht gefunden das J. Doch bin ich, wie ich bin, Und nimm mich nur hin! Ich bin nun, wie ich bin; So nimm mich nur hin!
The candle crocus And daffodil gold Drink fire of the sunshine-- Quickly cold. Huxley spent the later part of his life in the United States, living in Los Angeles from until his death. Best known for his novels including Brave New World and wide-ranging output of essays, Huxley also edited the magazine Oxford Poetry, and published short stories, poetry, travel writing, and film stories and scripts. Comment So sweet love seemed that April morn So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change.
But I can tell--let truth be told-- That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is naught to see, So delicate his motions be. And in the end 'twill come to pass Quite to forget what once he was, Nor even in fancy to recall The pleasure that was all in all. His little spring, that sweet we found, So deep in summer floods is drowned, I wonder, bathed in joy complete, How love so young could be so sweet. Robert Seymour Bridges 23 October — 21 April was an English poet, and poet laureate from to He went on to study medicine in London at St Bartholomew's Hospital, and intended to practice until the age of forty and then retire to write poetry.
He was afterwards physician. Lung disease forced him to retire in , and from that point on he devoted himself to writing and literary research. As a poet Bridges stands rather apart from the current of modern English verse, but his work has had great influence in a select circle, by its restraint, purity, precision, and delicacy yet strength of expression. It embodies a distinct theory of prosody… Wikipedia. Jahrhunderts Wild Nights Wild Nights! Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds To a heart in port, -- Done with the compass, Done with the chart!
Rowing in Eden! Might I but moor To-night in Thee! Mai ebenda gilt als bedeutende amerikanische Dichterin. Ihre Gedichte, erstmals nach ihrem Tod gedruckt, scheinen stilistisch vielfach ins Jahrhundert vorzugreifen. Comment April Augen, sagt mir, sagt, was sagt ihr? TELL me, eyes, what 'tis ye're seeking; For ye're saying something sweet, Fit the ravish'd ear to greet, Eloquently, softly speaking. Yet I see now why ye're roving; For behind those eyes so bright, To itself abandon'd quite, Lies a bosom, truthful, loving,-- One that it must fill with pleasure 'Mongst so many, dull and blind, One true look at length to find, That its worth can rightly treasure.
Whilst I'm lost in studying ever To explain these cyphers duly,-- To unravel my looks truly In return be your endeavour! Translator unknown. The youngest of three children, He joined the Navy where he was soon discharged due to being diagnosed as a schizoid personality. Soon after, he became a merchant seaman and then decided on the life of a vagabond. This lifestyle gave him inspiration for his later novels.
Ein Silberweißes Boot
Comment hi claus - traveller could also be Zigeuner Comment Hi noli, this is not really urgent. Take your time. Emily Dickinson.
Cuckoo, cuckoo! Then hearken how the poplar trees unfold Their buds, yet close and gummed and blind, In airy leafage of the mind,. Zwei Segel sich schwellend Zu ruhiger Flucht! Begehrt eins zu hasten, Das andre geht schnell, Verlangt eins zu rasten, Ruht auch sein Gesell. Gottfried Keller zu den bedeutensten Schweizer Dichtern des Comment The New World's History in Three Voices Confusing Cuba with a wealthy land, Columbus started what for centuries has plagued the people who survived in me: part-slave, part-royalty, part-Caliban, cross-dresser in the golden silk the sea rolls out along a beach that isn't mine, American yet un-American because not one of us is truly free,.
About Campo's work, the poet Mark Doty has said, "Rafael Campo's rhymes and iambs construct their music against the edgy, recognizable world his poems inhabit: the landscape of birth and of dying, sorrow and sex, shame and brave human persistence—first and last things, center stage in these large-hearted, open, deeply felt poems. Das tut jener, der sich selbst bezwingt und seine Sinne in Gewahrsam bringt, wie ein Sturmschiff in des Hafens Hut. Walther von der Vogelweide. Comment Saget mir ieman, waz ist minne Saget mir ieman, waz ist minne?
Walther von der Vogelweide Sage mir jemand, was ist Minne? Comment The Unknown Citizen He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint, For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Auden Wystan Hugh Auden Auden war einer der bedeutendsten und vielseitigsten englischen Lyriker des Lexikon der englischen Literatur. Comment Signing Sympathy The ritual keeps us breathing from biopsy to biopsy.
The lump out, or the whole breast; changing skylines of loss. She is the author of two chapbooks of poetry, Flower Half Blown and Epithalamion. Her first novel, Shiva's Arms, has been published recently. Von dem Auge weg der Schleier! Starre Riegel von dem Ohr! Tragen Wirbel mich empor? Und dessen ungeachtet wurde sie, in Ermangelung jedes andern weiblichen Wesens, — Schillers Laura.
Comment A Girl The tree has entered my hands, The sap has ascended my arms,. Translation: medicalwriter web. Pound is telling in this poem the part in which Daphne is turning into a laurel tree to scape from Apollo. The first part is told by Daphne in first person, telling her process of transformation. The second part is told by Apollo who is seeing the process. If you want to understand better this poem, you should read the myth of Daphne and Apollo. Ist es ein lebendig Wesen, Das sich in sich selbst getrennt? Sind es zwei, die sich erlesen, Dass man sie als eines kennt? Solche Fragen zu erwidern Fand ich wohl den rechten Sinn.
Comment The Widow's Lament In Springtime Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year. Thirtyfive years I lived with my husband. Eliot zum wichtigsten Dichter der amerikanischen Moderne. Faust, Mephistopheles, Irrlicht im Wechselgesang. Was wir hoffen, was wir lieben! Und das Echo, wie die Sage Alter Zeiten, hallet wider.
Goethe Faust I The plum broke forth in green, The pear stood high and snowed, My friends and I between Would take the Ludlow road; Dressed to the nines and drinking And light in heart and limb, And each chap thinking The fair was held for him. Between the trees in flower New friends at fairtime tread The way where Ludlow tower Stands planted on the dead. Ay, yonder lads are yet The fools that we were then; For oh, the sons we get Are still the sons of men. The sumless tale of sorrow Is all unrolled in vain: May comes to-morrow And Ludlow fair again.
April in Cambridge , normalerweise bekannt als A. Comment The Workers' Maypole Let the winds lift your banners from far lands With a message of strife and of hope: Raise the Maypole aloft with its garlands That gathers your cause in its scope When the World's Workers, sisters and brothers, Shall build, in the new coming years, A lair house of life—not for others, For the earth and its fulness is theirs.
Into the roaring Square! Shake the midtown towers! Shatter the downtown air! Comment Money often costs too much. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Juli ebenda war ein Schweizer Dichter und Politiker. Comment Zur Jahreszeit passend mein liebstes engl.
Gedicht: I wandered Lonely As A Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
William Wordsworth. Gleich ihnen, Wellen tanzen heut, Doch Blumen tanzen froher noch. Rainer Maria Rilke. Comment The Clowd I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
Comment Der Abenteurer "Abenteurer, wo willst Du hin? Ich will mich treiben lassen In Welten, die nur ein Fremder sieht. Joachim Ringelnatz. Bin ich gleich weit von dir, bin ich doch im Traum bei dir und red' mit dir; wenn ich erwachen tu, wenn ich erwachen tu, bin ich allein. Und die andere, die ging auch zu Bett, Aber hier zu Haus bei mir.
Joachim Ringelnatz — Comment Just a Smack at Auden Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end. What is there to be or do? Are we kind or are we true?
Sitting two and two, boys, waiting for the end. Shall we make a tale, boys, that things are sure to mend, Playing bluff and hale, boys, waiting for the end? It will be born stale, boys, stinking to offend, Dying ere it fail, boys, waiting for the end. Shall we go all wild, boys, waste and make them lend, Playing at the child, boys, waiting for the end? It has all been filed, boys, history has a trend, Each of us enisled, boys, waiting for the end. What was said by Marx, boys, what did he perpend? No good being sparks, boys, waiting for the end. Treason of the clerks, boys, curtains that descend, Lights becoming darks, boys, waiting for the end.
Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end. Not a chance of blend, boys, things have got to tend. Think of those who vend, boys, think of how we wend, Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end. September — April war ein englischer Literaturkritiker und Dichter. Comment She Walks In Beauty She walks in Beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! Goethe This leaf from a tree in the East, Has been given to my garden. It reveals a certain secret, Which pleases me and thoughtful people.
Does it represent One living creature Which has divided itself? Or are these Two, which have decided, That they should be as One? Beide kannte ich bislang nicht in diesen Sprachen. Ein klitzekleines Gedicht zum Abend Ein Stern in einem Haufen Mist. Heinrich Heine. Was ich Dir sagen wollte, ist eh nicht wichtig, oder mehr: Ich mag' Dich - sehr. Comment Ein Limerickdichter aus Aachen, nicht ahnend, was Limericks versprachen, der trieb es zu bunt, und das war der Grund, dass die Freunde zuletzt mit ihm brachen. All we are saying is give peace a chance, All we are saying is give peace a chance.
Let me tell you now Ev'rybody's talking about Revolution, Evolution, mastication, flagellation, regulation, integrations, meditations, United Nations, Congratulations. Juni November bei Ors, Frankreich war ein britischer Dichter und Soldat. Er gilt als der bedeutendste Zeitzeuge des Ersten Weltkriegs in der englischen Literatur. No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -- The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all? But many there stood still To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge, Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world. Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge, For though the summer oozed into their veins Like the injected drug for their bones' pains, Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass, Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.
Hour after hour they ponder the warm field -- And the far valley behind, where the buttercups Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up, Where even the little brambles would not yield, But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands; They breathe like trees unstirred. Till like a cold gust thrilled the little word At which each body and its soul begird And tighten them for battle. No alarms Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste -- Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.
O larger shone that smile against the sun, -- Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned. So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together Over an open stretch of herb and heather Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned With fury against them; and soft sudden cups Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space. Of them who running on that last high place Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge, Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge, Some say God caught them even before they fell.
But what say such as from existence' brink Ventured but drave too swift to sink. The few who rushed in the body to enter hell, And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames With superhuman inhumanities, Long-famous glories, immemorial shames -- And crawling slowly back, have by degrees Regained cool peaceful air in wonder -- Why speak they not of comrades that went under? Life, to be sure, Is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, And we were young. Comment To moustique: Lavender The unforgettable beauty of lavender Occurs in both the earth And in the colors of the sky.
An aromatic flower, As well as part of the many changing Shades of the daily heavens on high. His poetry covers a wide range of themes from love, moonlight, fantasy, beauty, nature, time, and the religious-spiritual. His writing style changes depending on the subject and mood of a particular poem. Exhaler le venin de sa bouche impunie. Friederike Kempner, Comment Caminante No Hay Camino Todo pasa y todo queda, pero lo nuestro es pasar, pasar haciendo caminos, caminos sobre el mar.
Al alejarse le vieron llorar. Cuando el poeta es un peregrino, cuando de nada nos sirve rezar. Antonio Machado You come abroad, and make a harmless show, And to your beds of earth again. You are not proud: you know your birth: For your embroider'd garments are from earth. You do obey your months and times, but I Would have it ever Spring: My fate would know no Winter, never die, Nor think of such a thing. O that I could my bed of earth but view And smile, and look as cheerfully as you! O teach me to see Death and not to fear, But rather to take truce!
How often have I seen you at a bier, And there look fresh and spruce! You fragrant flowers! Henry King — English poet and bishop. Ein jeder sucht im Arm des Freundes Ruh! Der mich liebt und kennt, Ist in der Weite. Es schwindelt mir, es brennt Mein Eingeweide. Alone, and far away From all joy severed, Seeing the sky always On every side. Who love me and know me, they Distantly hide. Only the Yearning, they Know what I suffer! Es wird still. Sie sehn sich um.
ACS Study Module: Pierrot Lunaire, Texts
Eine Frage. Keine Antwort. Ein Gesicht erbleicht. Auf den Bergen hebt er schon zu tanzen an Und er schreit: Ihr Krieger alle, auf und an. Georg Heym — The War Now he has arisen: he, who slept so long, from the depth arisen, out of arches strong. Huge he stands and unknown in the twilight land, and the moon he crushes in his blackened hand. Broad on city's evening, wide and angrily shadows fall, and frost of strange obscurity makes the market's bustle stop in icy scare.
Silence reigns. They turn - and no one is aware. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe A violet stood upon the lea A violet stood upon the lea, Hunched o'er in anonymity; So amiable a violet! Along there came a young shepherdess Light paced, full of contentedness Along, along, The lea, and sang her song. Comment Here is the first verse of one of William Barnes' best poems. It was written in Dorset dialect now mostly extinct. In standard English: When wintry weather is over, And brooks sparkle in the sun, And noisy building rooks flee With sticks towards their elm tree; When birds sing, and we can see Upon the boughs the buds of spring,- Then I'm as happy as a king, Afield with health and sunshine.
Comment Thank you, Ecgberht, for adding this original spring poem. This is an extraction of what I've found about Barnes on Wikipedia: William Barnes 22 February — 7 October was an English writer, poet, minister, and philologist. He was born at Rushay in the parish of Bagber, Dorset, the son of a farmer. He first contributed the Dorset dialect poems for which he is best known to periodicals, including Macmillan's Magazine; a collection in book form Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect, was published in A second collection Hwomely Rhymes followed in , and a third collection in ; a combined edition appeared in Vor we do hear the blackbird zing His sweetest ditties in the spring, When nippen win's noo mwore do blow Vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow, But dreve light doust along between The leane-zide hedges, thick an' green; An' zoo the blackbird in among The boughs do zing the gayest zong.
Vor when my work is all a-done Avore the zetten o' the zun, Then blushen Jeane do walk along The hedge to meet me in the drong, An' stay till all is dim an' dark Bezides the ashen tree's white bark; An' all bezides the blackbird's shrill An' runnen evenen-whissle's still. An' there in bwoyhood I did rove Wi' pryen eyes along the drove To vind the nest the blackbird meade O' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheade; Or climb aloft, wi' clingen knees, Vor crows' aggs up in swayen trees, While frightened blackbirds down below Did chatter o' their little foe.
An' zoo there's noo pleace lik' the drong, Where I do hear the blackbird's zong. William Barnes. Thomas Hardy Order of Merit 2 June — 11 January was an English novelist and poet of the naturalist movement, although in several poems he displays elements of the previous romantic and enlightenment periods of literature, such as his fascination with the supernatural. I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
Would ye learn the spell? In Childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give ; To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer ; As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair. I sat and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey : And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible, to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped-- My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled : I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair. Her poem The Old Armchair made hers a household name for a generation, both in England and in America. Cook was a proponent of political and sexual freedom for women, and believed in the ideology of self-improvement through education, something she called "levelling up.
Comment Ah I was reminded again today of how refreshingly angry and funny D. Lawrence could often be in his Pansies : Intimates Don't you care for my love? I handed her the mirror, and said: Please address these questions to the proper person! Please make all requests to head-quarters! In all matters of emotional importance please approach the supreme authority direct!
So I handed her the mirror. And she would have broken it over my head, but she caught sight of her own reflection and that held her spellbound for two seconds while I fled. Comment Thank you, Phillipp, for this ever fresh poem by D. Lawrence David Herbert Richards Lawrence 11 September — 2 March was an English author, poet, playwright, essayist and literary critic.
As I've just learnt from Wikipedia, Lawrence's opinions earned him many enemies and he endured official persecution, censorship, and misrepresentation of his creative work throughout the second half of his life The latter book, his last major novel, was initially published in private editions in Florence and Paris and reinforced his notoriety.
Lawrence responded robustly to those who claimed to be offended, penning a large number of satirical poems, published under the title of "Pansies" and "Nettles". Auden was an Anglo-American poet, born in England, later an American citizen, regarded by many as one of the greatest writers of the 20th century. He was the son of a physician. Give me a doctor Give me a doctor partridge-plump, Short in the leg and broad in the rump,.
But with a twinkle in his eye Will tell me that I have to die. Mai war ein englischer Naturdichter und bekannt als einer der besten Beschreiber des Landlebens. To everybody it was plain That Piggy had a massive brain. He worked out sums inside his head, There was no book he hadn't read. He knew what made an airplane fly, He knew how engines worked and why. November in Great Missenden, Buckinghamshire war ein norwegisch-walisischer Schriftsteller.
Aber vor des Kampfes Gitter Ritt zuletzt ein schwarzer Ritter. Und zur reichen Tafel kamen Alle Ritter, alle Damen. Wohin der graue, Erschrockne Vater schaue, Sieht er eins der Kinder sterben. Comment The Whitsun Weddings That Whitsun, I was late getting away: Not till about One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out, All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense Of being in a hurry gone. We slowed again, And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain. Comment i carry your heart with me i carry your heart with me i carry it in my heart i am never without it anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling i fear no fate for you are my fate,my sweet i want no world for beautiful you are my world,my true and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
Ich trage Dein Herz! Ich trage Dein Herz bei mir. Ich trage es in meinem Herzen. Nie bin ich ohne es. Comment In a Station of the Metro The apparition of these faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black bough. Because of the treatment of the subject's appearance by way of the poem's own visuality, it is considered a quintessential Imagist text. The feelings I don't have, I won't say I have. The felings you say you have, you don't have.
The feelings you would like us both to have, we neither of us have. The feelings people ought to have, they never have. If people say they've got feelings, you may be pretty sure they haven't got them So if you want either of us to feel anything at all you'd better abandon all idea of feelings altogether. Lawrence — David Herbert Lawrence was one of the most important, certainly one of the most controversial, English writers of the 20th century. Comment A Thunderstorm A moment the wild swallows like a flight Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high, Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.
The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight, The hurrying centres of the storm unite And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe, Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge, Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height, With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed, And pelted waters, on the vanished plain Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash, Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed, Column on column comes the drenching rain.
Archibald Lampman — widely regarded as Canada's finest 19th-century English-language poet. Comment O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray, Warbl'st at eve, when all the Woods are still Thou with fresh hope the Lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May, Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day, First heard before the shallow Cuckoo's bill Portend success in love; O if Jove's will Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some Grove nigh: As thou from year to year hath sung too late For my relief; yet hadst no reason why, Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
November in Bunhill bei London war ein englischer Dichter und Staatsphilosoph. Ich diene beiden, die mich alles lehrten. Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
William Shakespeare. April in Wiesbaden war ein deutscher Schriftsteller. Nie prahle Tod, du gingst in seinem Schatten. In ewigen Reimen ragst du in die Zeit. Solang als Menschen atmen, Augen sehn Wird dies und du der darin lebt bestehn. So lang, wie Menschen atmen, Augen sehn, so lang lebt dies, so lang wirst du bestehn. Die Sonette. This highly inventive, blackly humorous tale, told entirely in rhymed couplets, was written and illustrated by Wilhelm Busch and published in Busch's classic tale of the terrible duo now in the public domain has since become a proud part of the culture in German-speaking countries.
Even to day, parents usually read these tales to their not-yet-literate children. Hope you enjoy reading the German-English text. Und dies hier: I will arise and go now, And go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, Of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, A hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, For peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning To where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, And noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, For always night and day I hear lake water lapping With low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway Or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. William Butler Yeats, Comment Re. Thus began the King and spake: 'So from the halls Of ancient hofburg's walls, A luxuriant Spring shall break.
To the barrier of the fight Rode at last a sable Knight. Pipe and viol call the dances, Torch-light through the high halls glances; Waves a mighty shadow in; With manner bland Doth ask the maiden's hand, Doth with ter the dance begin. Danced in sable iron sark, Danced a measure weird and dark, Coldly clasped her limbs around; From breast and hair Down fall from her the fair Flowerets, faded, to the ground. To the sumptuous banquet came Every Knight and every Dame, 'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, With mournful mind The ancient King reclined, Gazed at them in silent thought.
Pale the children both did look, But the guest a beaker took: 'Golden wine will make you whole! The children drank, Gave many a courteous thank: 'O, that draught was very cool! Spake the grim Guest, From his hollow, cavernous breast; 'Roses in the spring I gather! Comment my mind is my mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal tools. Lloyd N. Comment Don't tell me property is sacred! Don't tell me property is sacred! Things that move--yes!
Whereas I'm quiet. I was born with poor eyes and a house. She lived most of her life here in rural isolation. Comment Ode on a Grecian Urn Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What struggle to escape? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! Who are these coming to the sacrifice? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. Attic shape! Fair attitude! Calligramme konkrete Poesie All, This article is not meant as a lecture but more of a common forum for sharing poems that may be interesting for various reasons, including your very personal taste. I look forward to receiving some input from you every now and then O, my Luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my Dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun! O I will luve thee still, my Dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile! Und lebe wohl, meine einzige Liebe, und lebe eine Weile wohl!
Comment Die Pansies von franz. Lawrence s. And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us. This is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards. Sexless people transmit nothing. And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work, life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready and we ripple with life through the days. Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool, if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding good is the stool, content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her, content is the man.
Give, and it shall be given unto you is still the truth about life. But giving life is not so easy. It doesn't mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up. It means kindling the life quality where it was not, even if it's only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.
Lawrence Der dritte Text war "perfection" von Ernst Jandl : Perfection 0 lovely apple! No one has moved you since I placed you on the porch rail a Month ago to ripen. No one. No one! Wie satt und feucht der Mantel aus Braun auf jenem un- angetasteten Fleisch! Comment Phillipp: Many thanks for introducing selected poems by D. Lawrence here. Idiosynchratic works are appreciated. Vielen Dank. Spring Breezes Spring breezes over the blue, now lightly frolicking in some tropic bay, go forth to meet her way, for here the spell hath won and dream is true.
And now I bid thee bring tenderly hither over a subject sea that golden one whose grace hath made me king, and, soon to glad my gaze at shut of day, loosen'd in happy air her charmed hair. Oktober ebd. Comment A Gift See! I give myself to you, Beloved! My words are little jars For you to take and put upon a shelf. Their shapes are quaint and beautiful, And they have many pleasant colours and lustres To recommend them.
Also the scent from them fills the room With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses. When I shall have given you the last one, You will have the whole of me, But I shall be dead. Mai ebenda war eine amerikanische Frauenrechtlerin und Dichterin. A bird picks up its seeds or little snails between heedless earth and heaven in heedlessness.
But, the plucky little sport, it gives to life song, and chirruping, gay feathers, fluff-shadowed warmth and all the unspeakable charm of birds hopping and fluttering and being birds. Kronen schimmern in den Kirchen. Ihre feuchten Lippen beben Und sie warten an den Toren. Fremde lauschen auf den Stufen. Helle Instrumente singen. Wer hat denn das Monopol auf die 'richtige' Interpretation eines Gedichtes? And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
When lo! Caught in a thicket by its horns, A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead. But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one. Wilfred Owen, For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him. For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way. For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer. For he rolls upon prank to work it in. For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself. For this he performs in ten degrees. For first he looks upon his fore-paws to see if they are clean. For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there. For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the fore-paws extended. For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood. For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash. For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat. For eighthly he rubs himself against a post. For ninthly he looks up for his instructions. For tenthly he goes in quest of food. For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour. For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness. For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it chance. For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying. For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary. For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes. For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life. For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him. For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
Christopher Smart was an English poet, a major contributor to popular magazines and a friend to influential writers such as Samuel Johnson and Henry Fielding. A high church Anglican, Smart was known throughout London. He was infamous for his role as "Mrs. Mary Midnight" and widespread accounts of his father-in-law, John Newbery, locking him away in a mental asylum for many years over his religious "mania".
Smart's two best-known works are A Song to David and Jubilate Agno , both written at least partly during his confinement in asylum. Jubilate Agno was not published until Wie Despoten enden, hat's dich Nicht gelehrt des Bruders Beispiel? Nicht gelehrt des Vaters Beispiel? Nicht des Vaters-Vaters Beispiel? Blutig fingst auch du zu herrschen An!
August von Platen, ; aus den "Polenliedern". November ist ein deutscher Lyriker und Essayist; Autor gesellschaftskritischer Lyrik z. Wort und Vers werden mit anscheinend spielerischer Leistung gehandhabt, u. Comment Buttercups and Daisies I never see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart; - My smile expires into a sigh; I feel a struggling in my eye, 'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, Till rolling tears have won their way; For, soul and brain will travel back, Through memory's chequer'd mazes, To days, when I but trod life's track For buttercups and daisies.
There seems a bright and fairy spell About there very names to dwell; And though old Time has mark'd my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile, if you will, but some heartstrings Are closest link'd to simplest things; And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, Till love, and life, and all be past; And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave With buttercups and daisies.
Eliza Cook — Valentine Not a red rose or a satin heart. I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief. I am trying to be truthful. Not a cute card or a kissogram. Dezember in Glasgow ist eine schottische Lyrikerin und Dramatikerin. Comment "There was a man and he was mad" There was a man and he was mad And he ran up the steeple, And there he cut his nose off And flung it at the people. Comment Vergissmeinnicht Three weeks gone and the combatants gone, returning over the nightmare ground we found the place again, and found the soldier sprawling in the sun.
The frowning barrel of his gun overshadowing. As we came on that day, he hit my tank with one like the entry of a demon. Here in the gunpit spoil the dishonoured picture of his girl who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht in a copybook gothic script. But she would weep to see today how on his skin the swart flies move; the dust upon the paper eye and the burst stomach like a cave. For here the lover and killer are mingled who had one body and one heart. And death who had the soldier singled has done the lover mortal hurt.
Keith Douglas , English poet, killed in action in France. I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds,-and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of-wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air June 9, — December 11, was an Anglo-American aviator and poet who died as a result of a mid-air collision over Lincolnshire during World War II.
Comment Monet's Waterlilies Today as the news from Selma and Saigon poisons the air like fallout, I come again to see the serene, great picture that I love. Here space and time exist in light the eye like the eye of faith believes. The seen, the known dissolve in iridescence, become illusive flesh of light that was not, was, forever is. He was appointed Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in Comment The Invisible With a flutter and a pitterpat The pigeon settles on the parapet. Draw down from your palate then A tightening tongue, and cluck. The pigeon turns his iridescent head, But how he hears is anybody's guess.
By what other channel than an ear, When he has none, can any pigeon hear? Along the parapet he waddles, next, Not closer, but away, and eyeing still The middle of a nowhere Schumann said , Root of a distress my tongue alerts him to. A second triple claw touches the parapet, And fear is a force, molding the invisible. No big deal, pigeon. You are wise to scare; Wiser than me to see nobody there. Christopher Middleton b. Comment Naturgesetze und psychologische Gesetze I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I waterd it in fears, Night and morning with my tears: And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright. And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine. And into my garden stole. When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning glad I see, My foe outstretchd beneath the tree. William Blake — And on Tuesday he fell on the hill And the happy lamb Never knew why the loud collie straddled him. And on Wednesday he fell on a bush And the blackbird Laid by his little flute for the last time.
George Mackay Brown , splendid Orkney poet who wrote in English. I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.
If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known. But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.
Joyce Kilmer December 6, — July 30, was an American journalist, poet, literary critic, lecturer, and editor. Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride! And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow! Where got ye that winsome marrow? Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? Why on thy braes is heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow.
O dule and sorrow! As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed; As green its grass, its gowan as yellow; As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple from its rocks as mellow. Busk, ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! How can I busk, a winsome marrow? For there was basely slain my love— My love as he had not been a lover.
I little, little knew He was in these to meet his ruin!