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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Topic: AE Poetry Club
    Posted: 19-Feb-2012 at 18:53
Paul Verlaine "Nevermore":

Nevermore

 

          (Poèmes Saturniens: Mélancholia II)

 

Memory, memory, what do you want of me? Autumn

Makes the thrush fly through colourless air,

And the sun casts its monotonous glare

On the yellowing woods where the north winds hum.

 

We were alone, and walking in dream,

She and I, hair and thoughts wind-blown.

Then, turning her troubling gaze on me,

‘Your loveliest day?’ in her voice of fine gold,

 

Her voice, with its angel’s tone, fresh, vibrant, sweet.

I gave her my answer, a smile so discreet,

And kissed her white hand with devotion.

 

– Ah! The first flowers, what a fragrance they have!

And how charming the murmured emotion

Of a first ‘yes’ let slip from lips that we love!




Edited by Don Quixote - 19-Feb-2012 at 18:58
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 16-Feb-2012 at 19:04
Paul Verlaine is my next project on this thread. He lived a relatively short life, from 1844–1896, and in this time became one of the most important figures in the French symbolism movement. Here is a goo bio in him  http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/paul-verlaine  .

Autumn Song

  With long sobs
the violin-throbs
of autumn wound
my heart with languorous
and montonous
sound.

Choking and pale
When I mind the tale
the hours keep,
my memory strays
down other days
and I weep;

and I let me go
where ill winds blow
now here, now there,
harried and sped,
even as a dead
leaf, anywhere.

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Feb-2012 at 20:49
Vladimir Vysotsky, "Common Grave". Here I treat Vysotsky's songs as poem, because he himself said many a time that he is not a singer, but a "poet with guitar", a bard; and his poems are not songs, but poems that are set to music, and is supposed to be presented with rhythmic accompaniment.
For all soldiers everywhere.









Edited by Don Quixote - 15-Feb-2012 at 20:56
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 14-Feb-2012 at 22:04
Vladimir Mayakovsky:

Listen!

Listen,
if stars are lit
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means - someone wants them to be,
that someone deems those specks of spit
magnificent.

And overwrought,
in the swirls of afternoon dust,
he bursts in on God,
afraid he might be already late.
In tears,
he kisses God's sinewy hand
and begs him to guarantee
that there will definitely be a star.
He swears
he won't be able to stand
that starless ordeal.

Later,
He wanders around, worried,
but outwardly calm.

And to everyone else, he says:
'Now,
it's all right.
You are no longer afraid,
are you?'

Listen,
if stars are lit,
it means - there is someone who needs it.
It means it is essential
that every evening
at least one star should ascend
over the crest of the building.

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 12-Feb-2012 at 21:59
Something savage from my beloved Mayakovski, 1917:
To All and Everything

No.
It can’t be.
No!
You too, beloved?
Why? What for?
Darling, look -
I came,
I brought flowers,
but, but... I never took
silver spoons from your drawer!

Ashen-faced,
I staggered down five flights of stairs.
The street eddied round me. Blasts. Blares.
Tires screeched.
It was gusty.
The wind stung my cheeks.
Horn mounted horn lustfully.

Above the capital’s madness
I raised my face,
stern as the faces of ancient icons.
Sorrow-rent,
on your body as on a death-bed, its days
my heart ended.

You did not sully your hands with brute murder.
Instead,
you let drop calmly:
“He’s in bed.
There’s fruit and wine
On the bedstand’s palm.”

Love!
You only existed in my inflamed brain.
Enough!
Stop this foolish comedy
and take notice:
I’m ripping off
my toy armour,
I,
the greatest of all Don Quixotes!

Remember?
Weighed down by the cross,
Christ stopped for a moment,
weary.
Watching him, the mob
yelled, jeering:
“Get movin’, you clod!”

That’s right!
Be spiteful.
Spit upon him who begs for a rest
on his day of days,
harry and curse him.
To the army of zealots, doomed to do good,
man shows no mercy!

That does it!

I swear by my pagan strength -
gimme a girl,
young,
eye-filling,
and I won’t waste my feelings on her.
I'll rape her
and spear her heart with a gibe
willingly.

An eye for an eye!

A thousand times over reap of revenge the crops'
Never stop!
Petrify, stun,
howl into every ear:
“The earth is a convict, hear,
his head half shaved by the sun!”

An eye for an eye!

Kill me,
bury me -
I’ll dig myself out,
the knives of my teeth by stone — no wonder!-
made sharper,
A snarling dog, under
the plank-beds of barracks I’ll crawl,
sneaking out to bite feet that smell
of sweat and of market stalls!

You'll leap from bed in the night’s early hours.
“Moo!” I’ll roar.
Over my neck,
a yoke-savaged sore,
tornados of flies
will rise.
I'm a white bull over the earth towering!

Into an elk I’ll turn,
my horns-branches entangled in wires,
my eyes red with blood.
Above the world,
a beast brought to bay,
I'll stand tirelessly.

Man can’t escape!
Filthy and humble,
a prayer mumbling,
on cold stone he lies.
What I’ll do is paint
on the royal gates,
over God’s own
the face of Razin.

Dry up, rivers, stop him from quenching his thirst! Scorn him!
Don’t waste your rays, sun! Glare!
Let thousands of my disciples be born
to trumpet anathemas on the squares!
And when at last there comes,
stepping onto the peaks of the ages,
chillingly,
the last of their days,
in the black souls of anarchists and killers
I, a gory vision, will blaze!

It’s dawning,
The sky’s mouth stretches out more and more,
it drinks up the night
sip by sip, thirstily.
The windows send off a glow.
Through the panes heat pours.
The sun, viscous, streams down onto the sleeping city.

O sacred vengeance!
Lead me again
above the dust without
and up the steps of my poetic lines.
This heart of mine,
full to the brim,
in a confession
I will pour out.

Men of the future!
Who are you?
I must know. Please!
Here am I,
all bruises and aches,
pain-scorched...
To you of my great soul I bequeath
the orchard.

 


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 10-Feb-2012 at 00:56
Vladimir Vysotsky;

Apples of paradise
Russian title: Raiskie Iabloki
I one day will die – we are always dying at times,
I wish death not on my own accord, but by a knife to my spine:
The murdered are spared, given tickets to paradise,
But I won't speak of the living, but of the rested.

My face will hit the dirt, turn on its good side,
And my fallen soul will gallop up the hill on a stolen jade horse.
In those glorious gardens of paradise, I will gather purple-pale apples.
However, these gardens are guarded and they shoot you between the eyes.

Galloping up, I see before my eyes no kind of paradise:
Only a barren desert and all around— infinite nothingness.
And in between rise cast-iron gates and
A massive Иtape of five thousand sitting on their knees.

How my horse whines! I calm him with affectionate words,
But the burrs have almost but torn away his mane.
The old man gatekeeper struggles with the bolt too long—
Failing to open it, he grunts and grumbles, and leaves.

And the exhausted mass produce not one squeak.
They squat, their knees growing numb from it all.
A den of thieves, brothers, I hear the pealing of bells!
Returning full circle, He hangs crucified on the cross.

Blessings have been bestowed upon me, would I have wanted more?
Just my friends and my wife— let her fall on my coffin.
I will pick for them some of those pale apples,
But the gardens are guarded, and they shoot you between the eyes.

I know this old man by the tears upon his worn cheeks:
It is Saint Peter— he is an apostle, I am just a fool.
Here is the orchard, with a lot of frozen apples,
But the gardens are guarded, and they have just started shooting between 
the eyes.

So I drive my horse away, from this wretched hellhole.
Though the horses are begging for oats, I can't stop biting at the bit.
Along the cliff, with a lash, on the precipice, clutching apples
For you I bring them: you are waiting for me from paradise.
The song with English subtitles



Edited by Don Quixote - 10-Feb-2012 at 01:02
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 08-Feb-2012 at 23:37

 François Villon’s Prayer 

 

 

 

While the earth is still turning, while the     light is still bright,

Lord, grant Thou to each man that which he        lacks:

To the wise man grant brains, to the coward       a steed,

Grant the lucky man money…And don’t       forget about me.

 

While the earth is still turning,--Lord, it is      in Thy power!--

Grant the man who wants power to rule to      his heart’s content,

Grant the generous man a respite, if only to     the end of the day,

To Cain grant repentence…And don’t       forget about me.

 

All is in Thy power: I believe in Thy        wisdom,

As the dead soldier believes he’s living in        heaven,

As each ear believes Thy silent speeches,

As we ourselves believe, not knowing what        we do.

 

 

 

 

Lord, my God, my green-eyed one!

While the earth is still turning, amazed it’s      still turning,

While it still has time and fire,

Grant Thou a little to everyone…And don’t      forget about me.

 



Edited by Don Quixote - 08-Feb-2012 at 23:38
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 07-Feb-2012 at 22:34
Vysotsky:

Song about the Earth
Russian title: Pesnya o Zemle
Who has said "All is burned into ash?
No more seed in the Earth can be sown"
Who has said that the Earth is now dead?
No! For a time she quieted down.

Motherhood can't be taken from her,
Try to scoop up an ocean with leaves 
Who believed that the Earth has been burnt
No! She has blackened from grief.

Like gashes, the trenches were laid
And like gaping wounds ravens were gawking
Naked nerves of Earth, our maid,
Pain unearthy experieced knowing.

She'll endure all, she'll go on living
Don't write of Earth as if she is crippled!
Who has said that the Earth doesn't sing?
That forever she's silenced and muffled? 

No! She is ringing and deafening groans,
Coming from all her wounds and her roots,
Because Earth - is really our soul,
And a soul can't be trampled by boots!

Who believed that the Earth has been burnt?
No! She just quited down for a time. 






Edited by Don Quixote - 07-Feb-2012 at 23:06
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 06-Feb-2012 at 21:16

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

 

The tide rises, the tide falls,

The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;

Along the sea-sands damp and brown

The traveller hastens toward the town,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

 

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,

But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;

The little waves, with their soft, white hands,

Efface the footprints in the sands,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

 

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

The day returns, but nevermore

Returns the traveller to the shore,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

 

               Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



Edited by Don Quixote - 06-Feb-2012 at 21:24
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 05-Feb-2012 at 22:54
The New Colossus

 

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles.  From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips.  "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

 

Emma Lazarus



Edited by Don Quixote - 05-Feb-2012 at 22:56
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 03-Feb-2012 at 00:59
Be Still, My Soul, Be Still

 

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,

Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.

Think rather,—call to thought, if now you grieve a little,

The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

 

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry

I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;

Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:

Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

 

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,

I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.

Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:

Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

 

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;

All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:

Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation—

Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?
 

A.E. Housman

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 01-Feb-2012 at 22:51

And you as well must die, beloved dust,

And all your beauty stand you in no stead;

This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,

This body of flame and steel, before the gust

Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,

Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead

Than the first leaf that fell,—this wonder fled.

Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost.

Nor shall my love avail you in your hour.

In spite of all my love, you will arise

Upon that day and wander down the air

Obscurely as the unattended flower,

It mattering not how beautiful you were,

Or how beloved above all else that dies.

 

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 29-Jan-2012 at 16:16
 A Villonard - Ballad of the Gibbet

SCENE: 'En ce bourdel ou tenons nostre estat.'

It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when
that expecting presently lo be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know:

‘Freres humains qui apres nous vivez.'

Drink ye a skoal for the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
Drink we the comrades merrily
That said us, 'Till then' for the gallows tree!

Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron 'Ear-the-less',
Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain
Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the 'Haulte Noblesse'
And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.

Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
Drink we to Marienne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.

Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress,
Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain

Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign,
And sense the teeth through the lips that press
'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.

Drink we skoal to the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee.

Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain,
Culdou lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness
That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane:
Aie! the lean bare tree is widowed again
For Michault le Borgne that would confess
In 'faith and troth' to a traitoress,
'Which of his brothers had he slain?'

But drink we skoal to the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me:

These that we loved shall God love less
And smite always at their faibleness?

Skoal!! to the gallows! and then pray we:
God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his 'Haulte Citee'.

Ezra Pound


Ezra Pond wrote this for Fransoa Villon, a 15 century rogue poet, who was hung for theft; Marriet, Tybald, Fat Pierre etc are characters of Villon's poems. His last poem, written in the eve of his hanging, was this one:

Je suis François, dont il me poise,
Né de Paris emprés Pontoise,
Et de la corde d'une toise
Saura mon col que mon cul poise.

I'm currently not able to find an authorized translation for it, the following is my attempt for one.

I'm Francois, like this you knew me,
I was born in Paris, near Pontois,
My neck, grabbed in the rope pretty soon
Will understand what my bum already knew.

The sentence "'En ce bourdel ou tenons nostre estat.'" /in a bordello like ours we occupy/ is from a poem of his I currently haven't located yet.
"...
‘Freres humains qui apres nous vivez.'.." /Britehrs humans, whoa re born after us/ is from another Villon's poem, called

The Ballad of the Hanged Men

Men my brothers who after us live,
have your hearts against us not hardened.
For—if of poor us you take pity,
God of you sooner will show mercy.
You see us here, attached.
As for the flesh we too well have fed,
long since it's been devoured or has rotted.
And we the bones are becoming ash and dust.

Of our pain let nobody laugh,
but pray God
would us all absolve.

If you my brothers I call, do not
scoff at us in disdain, though killed
we were by justice. Yet ss you know
all men are not of good sound sense.
Plead our behalf since we are dead naked
with the Son of Mary the Virgin
that His grace be not for us dried up
preserving us from hell's fulminations.

We're dead after all. Let no soul revile us,
but pray God
would us all absolve.

Rain has washed us, laundered us,
and the sun has dried us black.
Worse—ravens plucked our eyes hollow
and picked our beards and brows.
Never ever have we sat down, but
this way, and that way, at the wind's
good pleasure ceaselessly we swing 'n swivel,
more nibbled at than sewing thimbles.

Therefore, think not of joining our guild,
but pray God
would us all absolve.
Prince Jesus, who over all has lordship,
care that hell not gain of us dominion.
With it we have no business, fast or loose.
People, here be no mocking,
but pray God
would us all absolve.



Edited by Don Quixote - 29-Jan-2012 at 16:33
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 28-Jan-2012 at 23:47
A Grief Ago

A grief ago

She who was who I hold, the fats and the flower,
Or, water-lammed, from the scythe-sided thorn,
Hell wind and sea,
A stem cementing, wrestled up the tower,
Rose maid and male,
Or, master venus, through the paddler's bowl
Sailed up the sun;

Who is my grief,
A chrysalis unwrinkling on the iron,
Wrenched by my fingerman, the leaden bud
Shot through the leaf,
Was who was folded on the rod the aaron
Road east to plague,
The horn and ball of water on the frog
Housed in the side.

And she who lies,
Like exodus a chapter from the garden,
Brand of the lily's anger on her ring,
Tugged through the days
Her ropes of heritage, the wars of pardon,
On field and sand
The twelve triangles of the cherub wind
Engraving going.

Who then is she,
She holding me? The people's sea drives on her,
Drives out the father from the caesared camp;
The dens of shape
Shape all her whelps with the long voice of water,
That she I have,
The country-handed grave boxed into love,
Rise before dark.

The night is near,
A nitric shape that leaps her, time and acid;
I tell her this: before the suncock cast
Her bone to fire,
Let her inhale her dead, through seed and solid
Draw in their seas,
So cross her hand with their grave gipsy eyes,
And close her fist.


Dylan Thomas

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 26-Jan-2012 at 21:16
Fadwa Tuqan


The Deluge and the Tree

When the hurricane swirled and spread its deluge
of dark evil
onto the good green land
'they' gloated. The western skies
reverberated with joyous accounts:
"The Tree has fallen !
The great trunk is smashed! The hurricane leaves no life in the Tree!"

Had the Tree really fallen?
Never! Not with our red streams flowing forever,
not while the wine of our thorn limbs
fed the thirsty roots,
Arab roots alive
tunneling deep, deep, into the land!

When the Tree rises up, the branches
shall flourish green and fresh in the sun
the laughter of the Tree shall leaf
beneath the sun
and birds shall return
Undoubtedly, the birds shall return.
The birds shall return.

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 26-Jan-2012 at 03:11
Madman

You ask me how I became a madman. It happened thus: One day, long
before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all
my masks were stolen,--the seven masks I have fashioned an worn in
seven lives,--I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting,
'Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves.'

Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their houses in fear
of me.

And when I reached the market place, a youth standing on a house-top
cried, 'He is a madman.' I looked up to behold him; the sun kissed
my own naked face for the first time. For the first time the sun
kissed my own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for
the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance I
cried, 'Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks.'

Thus I became a madman.

And I have found both freedom of loneliness and the safety from
being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in
us.

But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a Thief in a jail
is safe from another thief.


Khalil Gibran
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 28-Dec-2011 at 15:29
Rudyard Kipling - Contradictions

The drowsy carrier sways
  To the drowsy horses' tramp.
His axles winnow the sprays
Of the hedge where the rabbit plays
  In the light of his single lamp.

He hears a roar behind,
  A howl, a hoot, and a yell,
A headlight strikes him blind
And a stench o'erpowers the wind 
  Like a blast from the mouth of Hell.

He mends his swingle-bar,
  And loud his curses ring;
But a mother watching afar
Hears the hum of the doctor's car
  Like the beat of an angel's wing!

So, to the poet's mood,
  Motor or carrier's van,
Properly understood,
Are neither evil nor good --
  Ormuzd not Ahriman!

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Oct-2011 at 18:18
Looking At You

I look at you as you look at me too
And fall in your eyes pinned on mine
And then I think you are so beautiful
When you look at me, look through me tonight.
And then your eyes go somewhere else
And then I see the shifting of the light
In them, and then I think you are so beautiful
When your eyes go there and you don't know
That I have locked my gaze again on you
When you don't know that I still walk my eyes
Down your face, then run in disarray,
You are so beautiful my heart is sinking down
When you look at me and when you are away...
Just keep on being you in everything you do
Just keep your eyes the way you know not
How much it is for me to look in them
When you look at me and when you don't.
DQ



Edited by Don Quixote - 15-Oct-2011 at 18:30
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Tsar
Tsar

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 13-Sep-2011 at 18:58
Looking at Michelangelo's "Day" and "Night"

"Day"

"Night"




Day and Night are Lovers
That can never touch
For when the one is present
The other is not such

For when the one is Living
The others is a Ghost
One the one is Running
The other has to Stop

Only at Twilight and Dawn
Their fingers for each other reach
For a very brief "Hello"
With no time to speak

Back to back with each other
Like in a mystic Trance
They go forever and after
In an eternal Dance.

Day and Night are Lovers
That can never together Be
With all their given Freedom
They can be never Free.
DQ



Edited by Don Quixote - 13-Sep-2011 at 19:12
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 10-Sep-2011 at 20:27
Emily Dickinson, my favorite American female poet:

If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spum,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen's land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.



Edited by Don Quixote - 10-Sep-2011 at 20:28
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