Authors

Hymn To Love

November 28, 2019 Maria 0 Comments

Poem by Lascelles Abercrombie

We are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee,
As théou, Léove, were the déep thought
And we the speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we,
Thy fires of thought out-spoken:

But burn’d not through us thy imagining
Like fiérce méood in a séong céaught,
We were as clamour’d words a fool may fling,
Loose words, of meaning broken.

For what more like the brainless speech of a fool,—
The lives travelling dark fears,
And as a boy throws pebbles in a pool
Thrown down abysmal places?

Hazardous are the stars, yet is our birth
And our journeying time theirs;
As words of air, life makes of starry earth
Sweet soul-delighted faces;

As voices are we in the worldly wind;
The great wind of the world’s fate
Is turn’d, as air to a shapen sound, to mind
And marvellous desires.

But not in the world as voices storm-shatter’d,
Not borne down by the wind’s weight;
The rushing time rings with our splendid word
Like darkness fill’d with fires.

For Love doth use us for a sound of song,
And Love’s meaning our life wields,
Making our souls like syllables to throng
His tunes of exultation.

Down the blind speed of a fatal world we fly,
As rain blown along earth’s fields;
Yet are we god-desiring liturgy,
Sung joys of adoration;

Yea, made of chance and all a labouring strife,
We go charged with a strong flame;
For as a language Love hath seized on life
His burning heart to story.

Yea, Love, we are thine, the liturgy of thee,
Thy thought’s golden and glad name,
The mortal conscience of immortal glee,
Love’s zeal in Love’s own glory.

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On Another’s Sorrow

November 25, 2019 Maria 0 Comments

Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,      
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?      
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,      
Hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear;      

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all;      
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by;      
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O! He gives to us His joy
That our grief He may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone      
He doth sit by us and moan.

William Blake (1757–1827)

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The Divine Image

November 24, 2019 Maria 0 Comments


To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
All pray in their distress;
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love      
Is God, our Father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is man, His child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face,      
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine,      
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.      

William Blake (1757–1827)


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A Soldier – His Prayer

November 24, 2019 Maria 0 Comments

(This anonymous poem was blown by the wind into a slit trench at El Agheila, Libya, during a heavy bombardment).

Stay with me, God. The night is dark,
The night is cold: my little spark
Of courage dies. The night is long;
Be with me, God, and make me strong.

I love a game. I love a fight.
I hate the dark; I love the light.
I love my child; I love my wife.
I am no coward. I love life,

Life with its change of mood and shade.
I want to live. I’m not afraid,
But me and mine are hard to part;
Oh, unknown God, lift up my heart.

You stilled the waters at Dunkirk
And saved Your servants.  All your work
Is wonderful, dear God. You strode
Before us down that dreadful road.

We were alone, and hope had fled;
We loved our country and our dead,
And could not shame them; so we stayed
The course, and were not much afraid.

Dear God, that nightmare road! And then
That sea! We got there – we were men.
My eyes were blind, my feet were torn,
My soul sang like a bird at dawn!

I knew that death is but a door.
I knew what we were fighting for:
Peace for the kids, our brothers freed,
A kinder world, a cleaner breed.

I’m but the son my mother bore,
A simple man, and nothing more.
But – God of strength and gentleness,
Be pleased to make me nothing less.

Help me, O God, when Death is near
To mock the haggard face of fear,
That when I fall – if fall I must –
My soul may triumph in the Dust.

From the anthology 'Poems from the Desert –  Published by George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd.



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All Last Night

November 11, 2019 Maria 0 Comments




    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

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Roses Can Wound

November 11, 2019 Maria 0 Comments

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) 



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Night

November 11, 2019 Maria 0 Comments

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.’

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Gefunden (Deutsch/ Arabisch)

November 10, 2019 Maria 0 Comments

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)

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