If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. In Schweigen und Leid. JULY 13, No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my Sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol.
It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes. FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses.
Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restorationfeelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love.
Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightenedthat serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved.
For nature then The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by To me was all in all. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence.
For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels 0 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes.
Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh!
Nor, perchance-- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence--wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love--oh!
Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! Twinkling with delight in the house twinkling with the moonlight, Bless my baby bless my baby bright,. Comment The Yellow Gas The yellow gas is fired from street to street past rows of heartless homes and hearths unlit, dead churches, and the unending pavement beat by crowds - say rather, haggard shades that flit Round nightly haunts of their delusive dream, where'er our paradisal instinct starves: - till on the utmost post, its sinuous gleam crawls in the oily water of the wharves; Where Homer's sea loses his keen breath, hemm'd what place rebellious piles were driven down - the priestlike waters to this task condemn'd to wash the roots of the inhuman town!
Ay, we had saved our days and kept them whole, to whom no part in our old joy remains, had felt those bright winds sweeping thro' our soul and all the keen sea tumbling in our veins, Had thrill'd to harps of sunrise, when the height whitens, and dawn dissolves in virgin tears, or caught, across the hush'd ambrosial night, the choral music of the swinging spheres, Or drunk the silence if nought else - But no! I only pray, red flame or deluge, may that end be soon!
Christopher Brennan — Seele des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wasser! Schicksal des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wind! Johann Wolfgang v. Comment Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose Gertrude Stein. In garb, then, resembling Some gay gondolier, I'll whisper thee, trembling, "Our bark, love, is near: "Now, now, while there hover "Those clouds o'er the moon, "'Twill waft thee safe over "Yon silent Lagoon. O, komm!
Comment Weil es gerade so gut passt: Herbsttag Herr: es ist Zeit. Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los. Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr. Rainer Maria Rilke. Comment Das Reden nimmt kein End' 1. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Uns soll geholfen sein.
Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Bald zieht der Kaiser ein. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — So schlag' der Teufel d'rein! Die Welt sie steht in Flammen, Sie sitzen noch beisammen. Wie lange soll es dauern Das Parla — Parla — Parlament? O Volk mach' ihm ein End'! Your summer's reign was grand. Beshadow now the dials of your sun and let your winds run rough across the land.
The latest fruits command to fill and shine: For them, let two more warmer days arrive to push them to perfection and to drive the final sweetness in the heavy wine.
The poetry corner - Vol. 3 - Chat room: English ⇔ German Forums - abepivurev.tk
The man without a house will build no more, the man without a mate will sole remain, will wake, will read, write letters long with pain and walk the boulevards, restless to the core, where falling leaves are drifting with the rain. Translation by Walter A. Autumn Day Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Let thine shadows upon the sundials fall, and unleash the winds upon the open fields. Command the last fruits into fullness; give them just two more ripe, southern days, urge them into completion and press the last bit of sweetness into the heavy wine.
He who has no house now, will no longer build. He who is alone now, will remain alone, will awake in the night, read, write long letters, and will wander restlessly along the avenues, back and forth, as the leaves begin to blow. Juni — Nr. Comment moustique: 89 -- gesucht und gefunden Seele des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wasser! Schicksal des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wind! Karl Friedrich von Gerok deutscher Theologe und Lyriker. So ging es viel Jahre, bis lobesam Der von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck zu sterben kam.
Legt mir eine Birne mit ins Grab. Und die Kinder klagten, das Herze schwer: "He is dod nu. Wer giwt uns nu 'ne Beer? Theodor Fontane — Entstanden Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Ode to Psyche O Goddess! I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true! O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
O brightest! So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
O Strahlendste! Treu, Psyche, dich! Wilhelm Busch. Comment Survivor Everyday, I think about dying. About disease, starvation, violence, terrorism, war, the end of the world. It helps keep my mind off things. Raymond A. Comment Comete. Just the detail that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about— as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun. Studie: medicalwriter webde Claus. A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled.
Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself--and equal to all woes, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.
Wer rettete vom Tode mich, Von Sklaverei? Ich dich ehren? Hast du die Schmerzen gelindert Je des Beladenen? Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Entstanden zwischen und Der Wind hat sich in einem Baum gefangen. An einem Fenster klebt ein fetter Mann. Ein grauer Clown zieht sich die Stiefel an. Ein Kinderwagen schreit und Hunde fluchen. Alfred Lichtenstein — Comment Le Jardin The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls. The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour.
Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk. Oscar Wilde. Comment Thank you, meera.
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That's brilliant! Au Jardin O you away high there, you that lean From amber lattices upon the cobalt night, I am below amid the pine trees, Amid the little pine trees, hear me! Well, there's no use your loving me That way, Lady; For I've nothing but songs to give you. Doch ach! Und ach! Heinrich Heine — Na, un denn --?
Denn jehn die Beeden brav ins Bett. Na ja Denn kricht det junge Paar 'n Kind. Denn kocht sie Milch. Denn macht er Krach. Denn is det Kind nich uffn Damm. Denn bleihm die Beeden doch zesamm. Er will noch wat mit blonde Haare: vorn dof und hinten minorenn Denn sind se alt. Der Sohn haut ab. Der Olle macht nu ooch bald schlapp. Wie der noch scharf uff Muttern war, det is schon beinah nich mehr wahr! Kurt Tucholsky. Comment Ode To A Chestnut On The Ground From bristly foliage you fell complete, polished wood, gleaming mahogany, as perfect as a violin newly born of the treetops, that falling offers its sealed-in gifts, the hidden sweetness that grew in secret amid birds and leaves, a model of form, kin to wood and flour, an oval instrument that holds within it intact delight, an edible rose.
In the heights you abandoned the sea-urchin burr that parted its spines in the light of the chestnut tree; through that slit you glimpsed the world, birds bursting with syllables, starry dew below, the heads of boys and girls, grasses stirring restlessly, smoke rising, rising. You made your decision, chestnut, and leaped to earth, burnished and ready, firm and smooth as the small breasts of the islands of America. You fell, you struck the ground, but nothing happened, the grass still stirred, the old chestnut sighed with the mouths of a forest of trees, a red leaf of autumn fell, resolutely, the hours marched on across the earth.
Because you are only a seed, chestnut tree, autumn, earth, water, heights, silence prepared the germ, the floury density, the maternal eyelids that buried will again open toward the heights the simple majesty of foliage, the dark damp plan of new roots, the ancient but new dimensions of another chestnut tree in the earth.
I asked: "But how do I come here, Who never wished to come; Can the light and air be made more clear, The floor more quietsome, And the doors set wide? They numb Fast-locked, and fill with fear. Aue ist sehr gut gelungen. September Morning The world's adream in fog's embrace, Still slumber woods and meadows: But soon, through the dissolving lace, You'll see the blue of endless space, The milder grace of autumn's face Transcending golden shadows.
Englisch: Walter A.
Comment The Tuft of Flowers I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been,—alone, As all must be,' I said within my heart, Whether they work together or apart. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. Comment A Minor Bird I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song. Comment Die freie Marktwirtschaft Ihr sollt die verfluchten Tarife abbauen. Ihr sollt auf euern Direktor vertrauen. Kein Betriebsrat quatsche uns mehr herein, wir wollen freie Wirtschaftler sein! Fort, die Gruppen - sei unser Panier! Na, ihr nicht. Aber wir. Ihr sollt nicht mehr zusammenstehn - wollt ihr wohl auseinandergehn!
Keine Kartelle in unserm Revier! Ihr nicht. Wir stehen neben den Hochofenflammen in Interessengemeinschaften fest zusammen. Gut organisiert sitzen wir hier Kurt Tucholsky — Comment Herbstaugen Presse dich eng an den Boden. Die Erde riecht noch nach Sommer,. So kommt es denn zuletzt heraus, Dass ich ein ganz famoses Haus. Der Dorfschulmeister stieg hinauf auf seines Blechschilds Messingknauf und sprach zum Wolf, der seine Pfoten geduldig kreuzte vor dem Toten: "Der Werwolf", - sprach der gute Mann, "des Weswolfs"- Genitiv sodann, "dem Wemwolf" - Dativ, wie man's nennt, "den Wenwolf" - damit hat's ein End.
Doch da er kein Gelehrter eben, so schied er dankend und ergeben. Comment Herbstbild Dies ist ein Herbsttag, wie ich keinen sah! Christian Friedrich Hebbel — Comment The Teasers Not but they die, the teasers and the dreams, Not but they die, and tell the careful flood To give them what they clamour for and why. You could not fancy where they rip to blood You could not fancy nor that mud I have heard speak that will not cake or dry.
Our claims to act appear so small to these Our claims to act colder lunacies That cheat the love, the moment, the small fact. Comment Missing Dates Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. It is not your system or clear sight that mills Down small to the consequence a life requires; Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires.
Create bridges …
Kleine Blumen Was ist die Welt? Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Ihren Duft atme ich ein und sehne mich nach Joseph von Eichendorff. Franz Grillparzer Comment To Autumn O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. Es hielt sich lange auf der Flucht auf und sog sich ganz mit Lichte an; - da hob die Nacht die goldne Frucht auf: Schwarz ward die Wolke und zerrann.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Einsam in dem Kampf wie in der Ruh. Betty Paoli. Comment Eleanor Rigby Aaaaah look at all the lonely people. Aaaaah look at all the lonely people. Eleanor Rigby Picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been; Lives in a dream. Waits at the window, Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for? All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Father MacKenzie Writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear; No one comes near. Look at him working, Nodding his socks in the night when there's nobody there. What does he care? Eleanor Rigby Died in the church and was buried alone with her name. Nobody came. Father MacKenzie Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from her grave. No one was saved. I was wandering round Bristol one day and saw a shop called Rigby. But I just liked the name.
I was looking for a name that sounded natural. Eleanor Rigby sounded natural. Paul McCartney, Playboy, ; cf. Comment Evening Primrose When once the sun sinks in the west, And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast; Almost as pale as moonbeams are, Or its companionable star, The evening primrose opes anew Its delicate blossoms to the dew; And, hermit-like, shunning the light, Wastes its fair bloom upon the night, Who, blindfold to its fond caresses, Knows not the beauty it possesses; Thus it blooms on while night is by; When day looks out with open eye, Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun, It faints and withers and is gone.
John Clare John Clare 13 July — 20 May was an English poet, born the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption. Comment Dog's Death She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car. Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog! The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver. As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed. Seine Mutter, die selber literarische Ambitionen hatte, ermutigte ihn zu schreiben. Georg Trakl Ein Rondel, frz. Rondeau, ist eine kunstvolle alte Lied- und Gedichtform, bei der zwischen die gleichlautenden Anfangs- und End-Refrainverse zwei oder mehr Verse mit gleichlautendem Endreim gesetzt werden Refraingedicht.
Heut keltern sie den braunen Wein. Da zeigt der Mensch sich froh und lind. Georg Trakl. Wir alle fallen. Und sieh dir andre an: es ist in allen. Comment Solar Fire See the morning dancer, crossing the sky, Turning gold to amber travelling by He must know the answer He must know why. Looking for an answer look to the sky. Shadows getting shorter filling your sight Brightly burning starfire, life giving light Dawning into morning Day into night Looking for an answer, look to the light Sunlight streaming burn through the night First light stealing shine solar fire.
Starting from tomorrow look to the sky There's a new day dawning passing you by Follow on life's dancer and than you'll know why Looking for an answer look to the sky. Comment Der Lesende Ich las schon lang. Seit dieser Nachmittag, mit Regen rauschend, an den Fenstern lag. Den ganzen Himmel scheint sie zu umfassen: der erste Stern ist wie das letzte Haus. Rainer Maria Rilke, September , Westerwede. Comment Poem with Radiometer Four vanes pierced by a spindle, a cotillion in black and white. Moving in atmosphere lighter than air, one searches out the other moving away.
As inside the glass, outside. You move slowly through me, and light bounces from one skin to the other, a kind of feint. To kick at the shadows becomes a function of how we breathe. But what muscles the endless spin? Dark hides from light as light pursues it. If this was an experiment, it could be extrapolated to metaphor.
We think: it takes opacity to capture light. We think: if only the clouds did not erase the sun, we could quantify forever. Led by a single star, She came from very far To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot. She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn And water springs. Through sleep, as through a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale That sadly sings.
Rest, rest, a perfect rest Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west, The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand. Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore; Rest, rest at the heart's core Till time shall cease: Sleep that no pain shall wake; Night that no morn shall break Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace. Christina Rossetti Christina Georgina Rossetti 5 December — 29 December was an English poet who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems.
Comment Color What is pink? What is red? What is blue? What is white? What is yellow? What is green? What is violet? What is orange? Why, an orange, Just an orange! Christina Rossetti. Tritt her in den Reihen und tanz' mit mir. Johann Gottfried Herder. Wenn ich nun aber nicht mehr mag! Schon kratzt die Feder auf dem Bogen - das Geld hat manches schon verbogen. Drum lies doch mal Das Buch, das man dir anempfahl.
Es ist beinah wie eine Reise Im alten wohlbekannten Gleise.
“Superabundant Being”: Disambiguating Rilke and Heidegger
Der Weg ist grad und flach das Land, Rechts, links und unten nichts wie Sand. Du bist behaglich eingenickt. Da gibt es weder Bier noch Wein. Schlaf wohl und segne den Verfasser! Comment A Polished Performance Citizens of the polished capital Sigh for the towns up country, And their innocent simplicity. People in the towns up country Applaud the unpolished innocence Of the distant villages.
Dwellers in the distant villages Speak of a simple unspoilt girl, Living alone, deep in the bush. Christian Morgenstern. Zeit gab's genug - und Zahlen auch. Wo blieb sein Reich? Wo blieb er selb? Du entschiedest dich, Kastanie, und sprangst auf die Erde, glatt und bereit, fest und eben wie ein kleiner Busen der Inseln Amerikas. Meine Hand ist dir viel zu breit. Rainer Maria Rilke , Er war von einer Prinzessin beleckt. Da war die Liebe in ihm erweckt. So liebte er sie vergebens. Das ist die Tragik des Lebens! Joachim Ringelnatz. Comment The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,.
Den 27ten April Franz Grillparzer. Sechs Schweine verloren! Trotz dieser trennenden Kleinigkeit Lernten sie doch dann sich leiden Und gingen klug und bescheiden Abwechselnd durch die Zeit Und gaben einander Kraft und Mut. Und so ist das gut. In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie, Bound in by streams which give and take Their colours from the sky; Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, O what have I to do with time? For this the day was made. Cities of mortals woe begone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides.
Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad, But, sober on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad. There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain. Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns; Through times that wear, and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns. The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines.
Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, The sires of Nature, hide. Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong! See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books; Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks.
And if, amid this dear delight, My thoughts did home rebound, I well might reckon it a slight To the high cheer I found. Oblivion here thy wisdom is, Thy thrift, the sleep of cares; For a proud idleness like this Crowns all thy mean affairs. Comment Serenade So sweet the hour, so calm the time, I feel it more than half a crime, When Nature sleeps and stars are mute, To mar the silence ev'n with lute. At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes An image of Elysium lies: Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven, Form in the deep another seven: Endymion nodding from above Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown, And on the spectral mountain's crown, The wearied light is dying down, And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky Are redolent of sleep, as I Am redolent of thee and thine Enthralling love, my Adeline. But list, O list,- so soft and low Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow, That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem My words the music of a dream. Thus, while no single sound too rude Upon thy slumber shall intrude, Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love. Edgar Allan Poe. Comment Late September Tang of fruitage in the air; Red boughs bursting everywhere; Shimmering of seeded grass; Hooded gentians all a'mass. Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches. How that pine tree shouts and lurches! From the sunny door-jamb high, Swings the shell of a butterfly. Scrape of insect violins Through the stubble shrilly dins. Every blade's a minaret Where a small muezzin's set, Loudly calling us to pray At the miracle of day. Then the purple-lidded night Westering comes, her footsteps light Guided by the radiant boon Of a sickle-shaped new moon.
Amy Lowell — amerikanische Frauenrechtlerin und Dichterin. Khalil Gibran - libanesisch-amerikanischer Maler, Philosoph und Dichter. Emily Dickinson — The air ist still, almost of breathing free, but here and there are falling, without flaw, the finest-looking fruits from every tree. Do not disturb ripe nature's holy day! This is a harvest that is all her own, because, today, each fruit that breaks away falls from a milder ray of sun alone.
My goodness, Central That was then! I'm mad and disgusted With that Negro now. You say, I will pay it-- Else you'll take out my phone? You better let My phone alone. I didn't ask him To telephone me. It spoke of Black writers and poets, "who would surrender racial pride in the name of a false integration," where a talented Black writer would prefer to be considered a poet, not a Black poet, which to Hughes meant he subconsciously wanted to write like a white poet.
Hughes argued, "no great poet has ever been afraid of being himself. Komposition eines Liedes. Die englische Bezeichnung lyrics weist noch auf die gemeinsame Abstammung von Liedtexten und Lyrik hin. Gepriesen werde Der Herbst! Kein Ast, der seiner Frucht entbehrte! Genug ist nicht genug! Es lacht im Laube! Die saftge Pfirsche winkt dem durstgen Munde!
Die trunknen Wespen summen in die Runde: "Genug ist nicht genug! Conrad Ferdinand Meyer - Und es liegen Wald und Weide Unbewegt in blauem Duft. Pfirsich an der Gartenmauer, Kranich auf der Winterflucht. Dreaming of heroes. All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home. Their women cluck like starved pullets, Dying for love. Comment Indian Summer When was the redman's summer? When the rose Hung its first banner out? When the gray rock, Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed? Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks Started to see the proud lobelia glow Like living flame?
When through the forest gleamed The rhododendron? Or the fragrant breath Of the magnolia swept deliciously Over the half-laden nerve? When the groves In fleeting colours wrote their own decay, And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen'd blast That sang their dirge; when o'er their rustling bed The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail, Heavy of wing and fearful; when, with heart Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark'd The signs of coming winter: then began The Indian's joyous season. Then the haze, Soft and illusive as a fairy dream, Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold.
The quiet rivers, that were wont to hide 'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray'd By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept, While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged In the same element. Slowly the sun, And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved, And then it took upon its parting wing A rainbow glory.
Gorgeous was the time Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee, Our brother hunter, but to us replete With musing thoughts in melancholy train. Our joys, alas! Yet ah! Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Entstanden Autumn Feelings Flourish greener, as ye clamber, Oh ye leaves, to seek my chamber, Up the trellis'd vine on high! May ye swell, twin-berries tender, Juicier far,--and with more splendour Ripen, and more speedily!
O'er ye broods the sun at even As he sinks to rest, and heaven Softly breathes into your ear All its fertilising fullness, While the moon's refreshing coolness, Magic-laden, hovers near; And, alas! Friedrich Nietzsche. Comment Auguries of Innocence To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour. A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons Shudders hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight Does the rising sun affright. Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul. The wild deer, wand'ring here and there, Keeps the human soul from care. The lamb misus'd breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe. The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be belov'd by men. He who the ox to wrath has mov'd Shall never be by woman lov'd. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity. He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the last judgement draweth nigh. He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar. The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from slander's tongue. The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of envy's foot. The poison of the honey bee Is the artist's jealousy. The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags. A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent. It is right it should be so; Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know, Thro' the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. The babe is more than swaddling bands; Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright, And return'd to its own delight. The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar, Are waves that beat on heaven's shore. The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes revenge in realms of death. The beggar's rags, fluttering in air, Does to rags the heavens tear. The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun, Palsied strikes the summer's sun. The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands; Or, if protected from on high, Does that whole nation sell and buy. He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mock'd in age and death. He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death. The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. The questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to reply. He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel crown. Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour's iron brace. When gold and gems adorn the plow, To peaceful arts shall envy bow. A riddle, or the cricket's cry, Is to doubt a fit reply. The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please. If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out. To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate. The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's winding-sheet. The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Dance before dead England's hearse. Every night and every morn Some to misery are born, Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. We are led to believe a lie When we see not thro' the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light, To those poor souls who dwell in night; But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day. William Blake. Comment The Willow It is a willow when summer is over, a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson. Comment Sea Rose Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf, more precious than a wet rose single on a stem -- you are caught in the drift. Stunted, with small leaf, you are flung on the sand, you are lifted in the crisp sand that drives in the wind.
Can the spice-rose drip such acrid fragrance hardened in a leaf? Deutsch: medicalwriter web. Comment Silence A day of Silence Can be a pilgrimage in itself. Is not most talking A crazed defence of a crumbling fort? Comment Autumn Within It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old. Birds are darting through the air, Singing, building without rest; Life is stirring everywhere, Save within my lonely breast. There is silence: the dead leaves Fall and rustle and are still; Beats no flail upon the sheaves, Comes no murmur from the mill. Longfellow war ein Volksdichter.
Comment Im Herbst. Theodor Fontane. He abandoned poetry in the s for political activism, and later moved to Mexico to avoid the attentions of the House Un-American Activities Committee. He returned to poetry — and to the United States — in , and received the Pulitzer Prize in Comment A Clear Midnight THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best. Night, sleep, death and the stars.
Walt Whitman. John Updike — Wer sie nicht hat, der tadelt sie. Albrecht von Haller - Aus der Sammlung Fabeln. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast And the hearth must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Georg Trakl — Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, The grey smoke towers. Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all! Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall! Robert Louis Stevenson — Kennst du es wohl? Kennst du den Berg und seinen Wolkensteg? Dahin Geht unser Weg! O Vater, lass uns ziehn!
Goethe, der Gutste. Comment Come Up From the Fields Father Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete, And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son. Lo, 'tis autumn, Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind, Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd vines, Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing? Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds, Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well. Down in the fields all prospers well, But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter's call, And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away. Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling, She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.
Open the envelope quickly, O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd, O a strange hand writes for our dear son, 0 stricken mother's soul! All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only, Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, At present low, but will soon be better.
Ah now the single figure to me, Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, By the jamb of a door leans. Grieve not so, dear mother, the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs, The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd, See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.
Alas poor boy, he will never be better, nor may-be needs to be better, that brave and simple soul, While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, The only son is dead. But the mother needs to be better, She with thin form presently drest in black, By day her meals untouch'd, then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking, In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and withdraw, To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.
Walt Whitman — Seid ihr zur Reise fertig? Wohl ist's viel hundert Meilen von hier bis Afrika; doch, kommt der Sommer wieder, sind auch die Schwalben da. Julius Sturm - Comment Homework! Oh, Homework! Oh, homework! I hate you, you stink! I wish I could wash you away in the sink, if only a bomb would explode you to bits.
You're giving me fits. I'd rather take baths with a man eating shark, or a wrestle a lion alone in the dark, eat spinach and liver, pet ten porcupines, than tackle the homework my teacher assigns. Comment Herbst Brandstifterzeit. Als Rauch Fliegt mir der Sommer davon. Zitiert nach: deutsch. The woodbine-trees red berries bear, That clustering hang upon the bower; While, fondly lingering here and there, Peeps out a dwindling sickly flower. John Clare — englischer Naturdichter. Comment Autumnal Sonnet Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hold, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent summer dealt.
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes, It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave To walk with memory,--when distant lies Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. Und zur milden Lampe drinnen Kehrst du wie im Traume ein. Comment To Autumn I Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
II Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. III Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats — Giovanni Boccaccio Comment Arrival And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. Comment 'Fall, leaves, fall' Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night's decay Ushers in a drearier day. Georg Trakl - Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves; Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended; Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves; And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves! Comment Autumn Song Now the leaves are falling fast, Nurse's flowers will not last, Nurses to their graves are gone, But the prams go rolling on.
Whispering neighbors left and right Daunt us from our true delight, Able hands are forced to freeze Derelict on lonely knees. Trolle rennen durch den Wald, suchen fluchend Unterhalt, Eul' und Nachtigall sind stumm und kein Engel sieht sich um. Comment Kleine Rechenaufgabe Allein ging jedem Alles schief. Da packte sie die Wut. Comment Late Autumn October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf, Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf. The dignity of woods in rich decay Accords full well with this majestic grief That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day, Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief Only a robin sings from any spray.
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