Authors

All Last Night




    All last night I had quiet
            In a fragrant dream and warm:
    She became my Sabbath,
            And round my neck, her arm.

    I knew the warmth in my dreaming;
            The fragrance, I suppose,
    Was her hair about me,
            Or else she wore a rose.

    Her hair I think; for likest
            Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring
    Loitering down the wet woodways
            Treads it sauntering.

    No light, nor any speaking;
            Fragrant only and warm.
    Enough to know my lodging,
            The white Sabbath of her arm.

Lascelles Abercrombie

Roses Can Wound

Roses can wound,
But not from having thorns they do most harm;
Often the night gives, starry-sheen or moon'd,
Deep in the soul alarm.
And it hath been deep within my heart like fear,
Girl, when you are near.

The mist of sense,
Wherein the soul goes shielded, can divide,
And she must cringe and be ashamed, and wince,
Not in appearance hide
Of rose or girl from the blazing mastery
Of bared Eternity.


Lascelles Abercrombie -  (9 January 1881 – 27 October 1938) 



Night

William Blake (1757–1827).


THE SUN descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower,      
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight.      
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,      
And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are cover’d warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm.      
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,      
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,      
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,
And pitying the tender cries,      
And walking round the fold,
Saying ‘Wrath, by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness
Is driven away
From our immortal day.      

‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep;
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee and weep.
For, wash’d in life’s river,      
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o’er the fold.’

Gefunden (Deutsch/ Arabisch)

Ich ging im Walde
So für mich hin, Und nichts zu suchen, Das war mein Sinn. Im Schatten sah ich Ein Blümchen stehn, Wie Sterne leuchtend, Wie Äuglein schön. Ich wollt es brechen, Da sagt es fein: Soll ich zum Welken Gebrochen sein? Ich grub's mit allen Den Würzlein aus. Zum Garten trug ich's Am hübschen Haus Und pflanzt es wieder Am stillen Ort; Nun zweigt es immer Und blüht so fort.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1813)



وجدتها مرّةً في أعماقِ الغابةِ مشيتُ وحيداً؛ أبحثُ عّن لا شيء عزمتُ أفكاري. وجدتُ في الضلمةِ وردةً تَقِفُ هناك تتلألأُت كالنجومْ، كانت جميلةً كالعيون. سَعَيتُ لِقطفِها،— فقالت برقةٍ: "هل ستقطفني لأموت؟" اجتثتُها بِكُلِ جذورها و حملتها برقة تامة، و عُدتُ بها إلى بيتي، لحديقتي العزيزة. و في زاويةٍ صامتة زُرِعتْ على عجل؛ لتنمو للأبد، هناكَ حتى تزهر مرةً أخرى. الكاتب: يوهان فولفغانغ غوته

Übersetzung: Loai



 

 (vorgetragen von Ilyas 7 Jahre)

The Sick Rose

William Blake (1757–1827).



O ROSE, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed      
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Hope

Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,
May still grow white and shine with happier hours.
So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in it's fair bosom shows.

(Joseph Addison)

Ah! Sun-Flower

William Blake (1757–1827).

AH, Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime,
Where the traveller’s journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire,      
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.


The Garden of Love



I went to the Garden of Love,
And I saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And „Thou shalt not.“ Writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

William Blake

.surrender.

tap into the well
all the tears
the heartache
and past selves
release
bring them to this reservoir
and bathe
under moonlight
with compassion 
and gentleness as guides
helping to rid 
what is no longer needed


L'sJourney
Source Poem and Image: http://www.lsjourney.com/
(With kind permission)

A Dream

Once a dream did weave a shade
O’er my Angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, ’wilder’d, and forlorn,      
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart-broke I heard her say:

‘O, my children! do they cry?
Do they hear their father sigh?      
Now they look abroad to see:
Now return and weep for me.’

Pitying, I dropp’d a tear;
But I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied: ‘What wailing wight      
Calls the watchman of the night?

‘I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetle’s hum;
Little wanderer, hie thee home.

William Blake (1757–1827).

I Taught Myself To Live Simply

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.

Anna Akhmatova

Night

The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower,
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm.
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold,
Saying, ‚Wrath, by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness
Is driven away
From our immortal day.

‚And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep;
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee and weep.
For, washed in life’s river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o’er the fold.‘

To His Love


     "Teach me, love, to be true;
        Teach me, love, to love;
     Teach me to be pure like you.
        It will be more than enough!

     "Ah, and in days to come,
        Give me, my seraph, too,
     A son nobler than I,
        A daughter true like you:

     "A son to battle the wrong,
        To seek and strive for the right;
     A beautiful daughter of song,
        To point us on to the light!"

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

You Will Hear Thunder


You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

Anna Akhmatova

I Slept, And Dreamed That Life Was Beauty

 "I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
        I woke, and found that life was duty.
        Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
        Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
        And thou shall find thy dream to be
        A noonday light and truth to thee."

Louisa May Alcott



       

A farewell

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

(Alfred Lord Tennyson)

The Hereafter.

Hereafter!    O we need not waste
Our smiles or tears, whatever befall:
No happiness but holds a taste
Of something sweeter, after all; -
No depth of agony but feels
Some fragment of abiding trust, -
Whatever death unlocks or seals,
The mute beyond is just.

James Whitcomb Riley

À Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

L’amour, dont l’autre nom sur terre est la douleur,
De ton sein fit jaillir une source écumante,
Et ta voix était triste et ton âme charmante,
Et de toi la pitié divine eût fait sa sœur.

Ivresse ou désespoir, enthousiasme ou langueur,
Tu jetais tes cris d’or à travers la tourmente ;
Et les vers qui brûlaient sur ta bouche d’amante
Formaient leur rythme aux seuls battements de ton cœur.

Aujourd’hui, la justice, à notre voix émue,
Vient, la palme à la main, vers ta noble statue,
Pour proclamer ta gloire au vieux soleil flamand.

Mais pour mieux attendrir ton bronze aux tendres charmes,
Peut-être il suffirait — quelque soir — simplement
Qu’une amante vînt là jeter, négligemment,

Une touffe de fleurs où trembleraient des larmes.

Albert Samain, Le chariot d’or (1900)

Den första gång jag såg dig.... The first time...

The first time that I saw you it was a summer’s day

one morning when the sun was shining bright,

and all the meadow’s flowers, so varied in display,

in pairs stood bowing in its warming light.

So gentle was the morning breeze, and at the shore but slightly

a loving wavelet rippled round a shell the sand held tightly.

The first time that I saw you it was a summer’s day

the first time that I held your hand so lightly.



The first time that I saw you the sky was all ablaze,

so dazzling as the finely feathered swan.

There came then from the forest, the green-fringed forest’s haze,

a chorusing of birds in joyful song.

There trilled a song from high above whose beauty none could equal,

it was the tiny grey-fledged lark, as hard to glimpse as gleeful.

The first time that I saw you, the sky was all ablaze,

so dazzling and intense though without sequel.



And therefore when I see you, though it be winter’s day,

with snowdrifts lying glittering and cold,

I still hear larks’ quick trilling, the summer winds that stray

and spring’s keen urge to even so unfold.

I still sense that from downy beds green plants would be advancing

with cornflower and with cloverleaf all lovers’ joy enhancing,

that rays of summer sunshine upon your features Play,

which softly blush in radiance entrancing.


Birger Sjöberg  (1885- 1929)

Source: http://johnirons.blogspot.com/







Semper eadem

" D'où vous vient, disiez-vous, cette tristesse étrange,
Montant comme la mer sur le roc noir et nu ? "
- Quand notre coeur a fait une fois sa vendange,
Vivre est un mal. C'est un secret de tous connu,
Une douleur très simple et non mystérieuse,
Et, comme votre joie, éclatante pour tous.
Cessez donc de chercher, ô belle curieuse !
Et, bien que votre voix soit douce, taisez-vous !
Taisez-vous, ignorante ! âme toujours ravie !
Bouche au rire enfantin ! Plus encor que la Vie,
La Mort nous tient souvent par des liens subtils.
Laissez, laissez mon coeur s'enivrer d'un mensonge,
Plonger dans vos beaux yeux comme dans un beau songe,
Et sommeiller longtemps à l'ombre de vos cils !

Charles BAUDELAIRE -  1821 - 1867