Poesia - Sanderlei Silveira: My Soul Is Awakened

My Soul Is Awakened - Anne Brontë

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring,
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For, above, and around me, the wild wind is roaring
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky.

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray,
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing
And hear the wild roar of their thunder today!

New Year's Eve D. H. Lawrence
O sweet spontaneous E. E. Cummings
Pied Beauty Gerard Manley Hopkins
the sky was E. E. Cummings
Song of Myself - Section 16 Walt Whitman
Song of Myself - Section 23 Walt Whitman
Unwind My Riddle Stephen Crane
The Wheel William Butler Yeats
The White Birds William Butler Yeats

A Mortifying Mistake - Anna M. Pratt

I STUDIED my tables over and over, and backward and forward, too;
But I could n’t remember six times nine, and I did n’t know what to do,
Till sister told me to play with my doll, and not to bother my head.
“If you call her ‘Fifty-four’ for a while, you ’ll learn it by heart,” she said.

So I took my favorite, Mary Ann (though I thought ’t was a dreadful shame 5
To give such a perfectly lovely child such a perfectly horrid name),
And I called her my dear little “Fifty-four” a hundred times, till I knew
The answer of six times nine as well as the answer of two times two.

Next day Elizabeth Wigglesworth, who always acts so proud,
Said, “Six times nine is fifty-two,” and I nearly laughed aloud! 10
But I wished I had n’t when teacher said, “Now, Dorothy, tell if you can.”
For I thought of my doll and—sakes alive!—I answered, “Mary Ann!”

The Meeting - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

After so long an absence
&nbsp At last we meet again:
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
&nbsp Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken,
&nbsp And but few of us linger now,
Like the Prophet's two or three berries
&nbsp In the top of the uppermost bough.

We cordially greet each other
&nbsp In the old, familiar tone;
And we think, though we do not say it,
&nbsp How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas
&nbsp And many a Happy New Year
But each in his heart is thinking
&nbsp Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes,
&nbsp And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
&nbsp And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish
&nbsp Between the ghosts and the guests;
And a mist and shadow of sadness
&nbsp Steals over our merriest jests.

Mag - Carl Sandburg

I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish you never quit your job and came along with me.
I wish we never bought a license and a white dress
For you to get married in the day we ran off to a minister
And told him we would love each other and take care of each other
Always and always long as the sun and the rain lasts anywhere.
Yes, I’m wishing now you lived somewhere away from here
And I was a bum on the bumpers a thousand miles away dead broke.
I wish the kids had never come
And rent and coal and clothes to pay for
And a grocery man calling for cash,
Every day cash for beans and prunes.
I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish to God the kids had never come.

It may not always be so; and i say - E. E. Cummings

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be—
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands

If Spirits Walk - Sophie Jewett

“I have heard (but not believed) the spirits of the dead
May walk again.” Winter’s Tale

If spirits walk, Love, when the night climbs slow
The slant footpath where we were wont to go,
Be sure that I shall take the self-same way
To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray,
Sheer, gravelled slope, where vetches straggling grow.

Look for me not when gusts of winter blow,
When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow;
I would not come thy dear eyes to affray,
If spirits walk.

But when, in June, the pines are whispering low,
And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so
As some one's fingers once were used to play—
That hour when birds leave song, and children pray,
Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know
If spirits walk.

Eulalie - Edgar Allan Poe

I dwelt alone
In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

Ah, less- less bright
The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl-
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
curl.

Now Doubt- now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-
While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

Cherry-Ripe - Robert Herrick

CHERRY-RIPE, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come and buy.
If so be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer: There
Where my Julia's lips do smile; 5
There 's the land, or cherry-isle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.

Cherry-ripe - Thomas Campion

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:
There cherries grow which none may buy
Till “Cherry-ripe” themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds filled with snow;
Yet them no peer nor prince can buy
Till “Cherry-ripe” themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till “Cherry-ripe” themselves do cry.

Blueberries - Frank Prentice Rand

UPON the hills of Garlingtown
Beneath the summer sky,
In many pleasant pastures
On sunny slopes and high,
Their skins abloom with dusty blue, 5
Asleep, the berries lie.

And all the lads of Garlingtown,
And all the lasses too,
Still climb the tranquil hillsides,
A merry, barefoot crew; 10
Still homeward plod with unfilled pails
And mouths of berry blue.

And all the birds of Garlingtown,
When flocking back to nest,
Remember well the patches 15
Where berries are the best;
They pick the ripest ones at dawn
And leave the lads the rest.

Upon the hills of Garlingtown
When berry-time was o’er, 20
I looked into the sunset,
And saw an open door,
And from the hills of Garlingtown
I went, and came no more.

Angels - Gertrude Hall

HOW shall we tell an angel
From another guest?
How, from the common worldly herd,
One of the blest?

Hint of suppressed halo, 5
Rustle of hidden wings,
Wafture of heavenly frankincense,—
Which of these things?

The old Sphinx smiles so subtly:
“I give no golden rule,— 10
Yet would I warn thee, World: treat well
Whom thou call’st fool.”

Short Poetry Collection 057

Poesia - Sanderlei Silveira

sábado, 13 de maio de 2017

My Soul Is Awakened - Anne Brontë

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