domingo, 28 de maio de 2017

Sonnet II - Edna St. Vincent Millay

       









Sonnet II - Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.







A Statue in a Garden Agnes Lee
Tarantella Hilaire Belloc
Tract William Carlos Williams
Windy Nights Robert Louis Stevenson
Winter in the Boulevard D. H. Lawrence
Woof of the Sun Henry David Thoreau






Silentium Amoris - Oscar Wilde

As often-times the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.

And as at dawn across the level mead
On wings impetuous some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
Which was its only instrument of song,
So my too stormy passions work me wrong,
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.

But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.










My Voice - Oscar Wilde

WITHIN this restless, hurried, modern world
  We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
  And spent the lading of our argosy.
 
Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,         5
  For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow hath paled my lip’s vermilion,
  And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.
 
But all this crowded life has been to thee
  No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell  10
Of viols, or the music of the sea
  That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.


The Yarn of the Nancy Bell W. S. Gilbert




Lord Randal - Unknown

 “Oh where ha’e ye been, Lord Randall my son?
O where ha’e ye been, my handsome young man?”
     “I ha’e been to the wild wood: mother, make my bed soon,
     For I’m weary wi’ hunting, and fain wald lie down.”

   “Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randall my son?
Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?”
     “I dined wi’ my true love; mother, make my bed soon,
     For I’m weary wi’ hunting, and fain wald lie down.”

   “What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randall my son?
What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?”
     “I gat eels boiled in broo: mother, make my bed soon,
     For I’m weary wi’ hunting, and fain wald lie down.”

   “What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randall my son?
What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?”
     “O they swelled and they died: mother, make my bed soon,
     for I’m weary wi’ hunting, and fain wald lie down.”

   “O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randall my son!
O I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man!”
     “O yes, I am poisoned: mother, make my bed soon,
     For I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down.”




I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed - Emily Dickinson

I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro’ endless summer days –
From inns of molten Blue –

When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door –
When Butterflies – renounce their “drams” –
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the – Sun!






Into My Own - Robert Frost

ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day        5
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track        10
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew—
Only more sure of all I thought was true.





In August - Babette Deutsch

Heat urges secret odors from the grass.
Blunting the edge of silence, crickets shrill.
Wings veer: inane needles of light, and pass.
Laced pools: the warm wood-shadows ebb and fill.
The wind is casual, loitering to crush
The sun upon his palate, and to draw
Pungence from pine, frank fragrances from brush,
Sucked up through thin grey boughs as through a straw.

Moss-green, fern-green and leaf and meadow-green
Are broken by the bare, bone-colored roads,
Less moved by stirring air than by unseen
Soft-footed ants and meditative toads.
Summer is passing, taking what she brings:
Green scents and sounds, and quick ephemeral wings.





Go Down, Moses - Unknown

When Israel was in Egypt's land;
Let my people go.
Oppressed so hard they could not stand;
Let my people go.
Go down, Moses,
Way down in Egypt's land.
Tell old Pharaoh,
Let my people go.

Thus spoke the Lord, bold Moses said:
Let my people go.
If not I'll smite your first born dead,
Let my people go.
Go down, Moses....

No more shall they in bondage toil.
Let my people go.
Let them come out with Egypt's spoil,
Let my people go.
Go down, Moses

The Lord told Moses what to do,
Let my people go.
To lead the children of Israel through,
Let my people go.
Go down, Moses










The Gipsy Girl - Ralph Hodgson

Come, try your skill, kind gentlemen,
A penny for three tries!'
Some threw and lost, some threw and won
A ten-a-penny prize.

She was a tawny gypsy girl,
A girl of twenty years,
I liked her for the lumps of gold
That jingled from her ears;

I liked the flaring yellow scarf
Bound loose about her throat,
I liked her showy purple gown
And flashy velvet coat.

A man came up, too loose of tongue,
And said no good to her;
She did not blush as Saxons do,
Or turn upon the cur;

She fawned and whined, 'Sweet gentleman,
A penny for three tries!'
- But oh, the den of wild things in
The darkness of her eyes!









The Decimal Point - Norman Rowland Gale

When first sent to School (now the Station was Rugby)
I fancied my masters and took to the boys;
I thought to myself--here 'tis plain I shall snug be
Revolving at last in an orbit of joys:
The Alphabet Grecian I quickly could stammer,
Nor ran any risk of a jaw out of joint;
I waddled sedately through Fatherland Grammar,
But own I was floored by the Decimal Point!

Le Roi de Montagnes was my Gallic translation,
And soon I was praised by my master, who said:--
"I certainly deem that, with good education,
A Scholarship laurel should circle your head!"
I revelled in idioms; I thrilled at the phrases;
I knew how to render "avaunt" and "aroint,"
But own that I shed many tears on the daisies
Of Rugby when stumped by the Decimal Point!

I mastered the building proceedings of Balbus,
And rarely omitted a requisite cum;
I never remarked that an equa was albus,
And deftly supplied the subjunctive with quum!
No canis to me was a dog in the manger--
A classic by Fate I was clearly anoint!
I own, though, I ran into desperate danger
When fogged and be-fooled by the Decimal Point!










A Conservative - Charlotte Perkins Gilman

THE garden beds I wandered by
  One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly,
  A-sitting on a thorn,
A black and crimson butterfly         5
  All doleful and forlorn.
 
I thought that life could have no sting
  To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
  With wonder and surprise.  10
While sadly with his waving wing
  He wiped his weeping eyes.
 
Said I, "What can the matter be?
  Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free  15
  And flowers in goodly store,"—
But he only turned away from me
  And burst into a roar.
 
Cried he, "My legs are thin and few
  Where once I had a swarm!  20
Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view—
  Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
  To hamper and deform!"
 
At that outrageous bug I shot  25
  The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
  In rage and anger high,
"You ignominious idiot!
  Those wings are made to fly!"  30
 
"I do not want to fly," said he,
  "I only want to squirm!"
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
  But still his voice was firm:
"I do not want to be a fly!  35
  I want to be a worm!
 
O yesterday of unknown lack
  To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black;
  The last I saw was this,—  40
The creature madly climbing back
  Into his chrysalis.







The Charge of the Light Brigade - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

II
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
   Someone had blundered.
   Theirs not to make reply,
   Theirs not to reason why,
   Theirs but to do and die.
   Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
   Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
   Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
   All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
   Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
   Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
   Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
   Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
   All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
   Noble six hundred!








The Broken Heart John Donne





Short Poetry Collection 012



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