terça-feira, 30 de maio de 2017

Heat - Hilda Doolittle


Heat - Hilda Doolittle

O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat--
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.

How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix Robert Browning
I Died For Beauty, But Was Scarce Emily Dickinson
Jenny Kissed Me Leigh Hunt
Kubla Khan Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Lament of the Irish Emigrant Helen Selina
The Last Rose of Summer Thomas Moore
Laughing Corn Carl Sandburg
Love and Age Thomas Love Peacock
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T. S. Eliot
My Shadow Robert Louis Stevenson
Ode 314 Rumi
The Old Familiar Faces Charles Lamb
The Queen of Hearts Christina Rossetti
The Road Not Taken Robert Frost
The Tell-Tale Heart Edgar Allan Poe
Thou Art Not Lovelier Than Lilacs, - No Edna St. Vincent Millay
The Wreck of the Hesperus Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Dead Boche - Robert Graves

To you who’d read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
I’ll say (you’ve heard it said before)
”War’s Hell!” and if you doubt the same,
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for lust of blood:

Where, propped against a shattered trunk,
In a great mess of things unclean,
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

Dover Beach Matthew Arnold
Dulce et Decorum est Wilfred Owen
For Annie Edgar Allan Poe

The Artilleryman Walt Whitman
As Kingfishers Catch Fire Gerard Manley Hopkins

Because I Could Not Stop For Death - Emily Dickinson

Casabianca Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Christmas Bells Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Daffodils William Wordsworth

Abou Ben Adhem - Leigh Hunt

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Short Poetry Collection 001

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