August 13th, 2017, 03:24 PM | #461 |
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Childe Harold's Pilgramage
Canto IV I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand–his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his dropp'd head sinks gradually low– And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him–he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not–his eyes Were with his heart and that was far away; He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother–he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday– All this rush'd with his blood.–Shall he expire And unavenged?–Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! Lord Byron
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August 13th, 2017, 05:09 PM | #462 |
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Demain, dès l’aube…
Original language
Demain, dès l’aube… Victor Hugo Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends. J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne. Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps. Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées, Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit, Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées, Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit. Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe, Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur, Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur. Victor Hugo, extrait du recueil «Les Contemplations» Translation Tomorrow, at dawn, in the hour when the countryside becomes white, I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me. I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain. I cannot stay far from you any longer. I will walk the eyes fixed on my thoughts, Without seeing anything outside, nor hearing any noise, Alone, unknown, the back curved, the hands crossed, Sad, and the day for me will be like the night. I will not look at the gold of the evening which falls, Nor the faraway sails descending towards Harfleur. And when I arrive, I will put on your tomb A green bouquet of holly and flowering heather. . Last edited by Roubignol; August 13th, 2017 at 10:44 PM.. Reason: Deleted the intro explanation that was not mine. |
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August 13th, 2017, 05:13 PM | #463 |
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"I love you, you love me.
Going down the sugar tree. We'll go down the sugar tree, and see lots of bees: playing, playing. But the bees won't sting, because you love me."
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August 13th, 2017, 10:42 PM | #464 |
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Arthur Rimbaud: Le Dormeur du val
Original language
Le Dormeur du val Arthur Rimbaud C’est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons D’argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière, Luit : c’est un petit val qui mousse de rayons. Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue, Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu, Dort ; il est étendu dans l’herbe, sous la nue, Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut. Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme : Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid. Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ; Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine, Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit. Arthur Rimbaud Translation The Sleeper of the Vale It’s a gully of green where sings a river Desperately hanging on the grass its rags Of silver; where the sun, from the proud mount Shines: it’s a little vale that foams with rays. A young soldier, mouth open, head bare, And his neck bathing in the cool blue cress, Sleeps; he is stretched out in the grass, ‘neath the sky, Pale on his green bed where the light rains. His feet in the gladiolas, he sleeps. Smiling like A sick child smiles, he takes a snooze: Nature, cradle him warmly: he is cold. The scents do not make his nostrils quiver; He sleeps in the sun, one hand on his peaceful Chest. He has two red holes in his right side. tr. by A. Rodallec |
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October 12th, 2017, 08:57 AM | #465 |
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From
Part One: Life VICTORY comes late, And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost To take it. How sweet it would have tasted, Just a drop! Was God so economical? His table’s spread too high for us Unless we dine on tip-toe. Crumbs fit such little mouths, Cherries suit robins; The eagle’s golden breakfast Strangles them. God keeps his oath to sparrows, Who of little love Know how to starve! __________________Emily Dickinson |
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March 4th, 2019, 04:46 AM | #466 | |
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Quote:
that's one hell of a good song
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March 4th, 2019, 10:55 AM | #467 |
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I am surprised that after ten years this thread doesn't have the poem that I consider the best description of the century in which I lived most of my life:
The Second Coming, by W.B.Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight; a waste of desert sand; A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born? Last edited by charliels531; March 4th, 2019 at 11:12 AM.. |
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April 5th, 2020, 11:59 AM | #468 | |
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I'm going to be cheeky and re-post a poem I've already posted in this thread years ago because it's particularly appropriate to the Covid-19 crisis.
Quote:
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April 5th, 2020, 07:03 PM | #469 |
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Spring in Brooklyn by Anonymous (There are many versions of this poem. This is the one I remember from high school English class.)
Spring is sprung, Da grass is riz, I wonders where da boidies is? Da little boids is on their wing. Now ain't that absoid, Da little wings is on the boids. |
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April 9th, 2020, 08:09 AM | #470 | ||
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Quote:
This one is probably from the same soil, harvested about the same time: Quote:
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