quinta-feira, 25 de maio de 2017

Sonnet 116 - William Shakespeare

       








Sonnet 116 - William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.








To --- Sarah Helen Whitman
To the Cuckoo Michael Bruce
What lips my lips have kissed Edna St. Vincent Millay
The Year's at the Spring Robert Browning
Yuma Charles Henry Phelps








The Ocean - Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Ocean has its silent caves,
Deep, quiet, and alone;
Though there be fury on the waves,
Beneath them there is none.

The awful spirits of the deep
Hold their communion there;
And there are those for whom we weep,
The young, the bright, the fair.

Calmly the wearied seamen rest
Beneath their own blue sea.
The ocean solitudes are blest,
For there is purity.

The earth has guilt, the earth has care,
Unquiet are its graves;
But peaceful sleep is ever there,
Beneath the dark blue waves.





On Monsieur's Departure Queen Elizabeth I








Never and Forever - George Charles Selden

I stood by the rushing river,
    And watched its eddies whirl,
Where, in its rocky channel,
    The rolling ripples curl.
And my heart was sad and weary,
    For I mourned a life that was o'er,
And I said, in my soul's deep sorrow,
    "Ah! never, nevermore!"
Again I stood by the river,
    When years had passed away,
And watched its whirling eddies,
    And watched its ripples play.
And my heart was glad within me,-
    For I knew, on the other shore,
Once more I should be with my loved one,
    Forever and evermore.













My Heart's in the Highlands - Robert Burns

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Chorus.-My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, &c.













I died for beauty - Emily Dickinson

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth - the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a-night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.





It is Time to Begin to Conclude Alexander Hamilton Laidlaw
The Martyr Herman Melville









From One Who Stays - Amy Lowell

How empty seems the town now you are gone!
A wilderness of sad streets, where gaunt walls
Hide nothing to desire; sunshine falls
Eery, distorted, as it long had shone
On white, dead faces tombed in halls of stone.
The whir of motors, stricken through with calls
Of playing boys, floats up at intervals;
But all these noises blur to one long moan.
What quest is worth pursuing? And how strange
That other men still go accustomed ways!
  I hate their interest in the things they do.
A spectre-horde repeating without change
An old routine. Alone I know the days
  Are still-born, and the world stopped, lacking you.






The Good Morrow John Donne
Helen of Troy Sara Teasdale







Dong, sounds the brass in the east - Henry David Thoreau



from Eve's Apology in Defence of Women Aemilia Lanyer









Brahma - Ralph Waldo Emerson

If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.











Annabel Lee - Edgar Allan Poe




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