Poetry

POETRY

A nineteenth century  Romanian poet had written in one of his poems the following verse:

Oh, ideal lost in night-mists  of a vanished universe:

People who would think in legends - all a world who spoke in verse;

I can see and think and hear you - youthful scout which gently nods

From a sky with different starlights, other Edens, other gods.

This remains, at least in my view about the world, as pertinent today, perhaps even more so, as it was in the days of that century which prepared the end of our grandeur and the beginning of our decadence. I find it hard to understand and to accept that electronics have almost displaced in our minds and souls the fairy tales, the dreams and the poetry.

As I continue to encourage my soul to live in "the world of yesterday", I inserted here in this blog some of the great poems of the world, which are close to my heart.

The poems spread their light and warmth and noble ideas, enriching  the horizon of peoples of many lands and tongues, from the Andes to the Transylvanian Alps and far beyond. 

CONTENTS

Dimitrie Anghel:                      In grãndinã    
Guillaume Apollinaire:            Le pont Mirabeau
Tudor Arghezi:                        Tinca
                                                   Prigoana
                                                   Flori de mucegai
                                                   Testament
                                                   Blesteme
                                                   Printul
                                                   Creion
                                                   Psalm
George Bacovia:                       Lacustrã - Lacustrine
                                                   Plumb - Lead
                                                   Note de primãvarã  - Spring notes
Charles Baudelaire:                 Au lectuer
                                                   L’albatros
                                                   Hymne à la beauté
                                                   L ‘homme et la mer
                                                   L’invitation au voyage
                                                   La mort des amants
                                                   Le Lethe
                                                   Recueillment
William Blake:                         Fragment from  Auguries of  Innocence
Lord George Gordon Byron:  So we’ll go no more a-roving
George Cosbuc:                       Moartea lui Fulger
Samual Taylor Coleridge:      Work without hope
Mihai Eminescu:                     Mortua est  - Mortua est
                                                  Melancolie - Melancoly
                                                  O, rămâi - O, remain
                                                  Luceafãrul  -  Evening Star
                                                  Pe Lãngã Plopii fara sot - Down where the lonely poplars…..
                                                  Mai am un singur dor- The boon which I last crave
Octavian Goga:                       Rugãciune - A Prayer
                                                  Noi     
                                                  Oltul - The Olt
JohannWolfgang von Goethe:  Der Erlkönig - The Erlking
Radu Gyr:                                Stindarde
                                                   Ridicã-te Gheorghe, ridicã-te Iaone - Arise George..
                                                   Rondelul aripilor frînte
                                                   Indemn la luptã - Battle song
                                                   Butucii
Rudyard Kipling:                    If
Nicolae Labis:                          Inceputul
                                                  Fior
                                                  Moartea cãprioarei - The death of the deer
                                                  Albatrosul
David Herbert Lawrence:      Green
John Masefield:                      The Wanderer
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:Mezzo cammin
Ion Minulescu:                        Romanta marilor  dispãruti
                                                  Odeletã 
                                                  Celei care minte
                                                  Celei mai aproape           
Pablo Neruda:                         Poema 1 /  Body of a woman
                                                  Poema 20 /  Tonight I can write
                                                  La cancion desesparada / Song of despair
Alden Nowlan:                        This is what I wanted to sign off with  
Edgar Alan Poe:                      Eldorado
                                                  Annabel Lee
                                                  Alone
                                                  The haunted palace
William Shakespeare:             Sonnet XVIII
                                                  Sonnet LXXII
Percy Bysshe Shelley:             Mutability
                                                  Song
                                                  To….
George Topanarceau:             Cântec
                                                  Balada mortii
Paul Verlaine:                         Lassitude
                                                  Cauchemar
                                                  Mon rève familier
William Wordsworth:            Perfect woman
                                                  Daffodils
Walt Whitman:                       A child said, what is the grass?
Oscar Wilde:                           The ballad of Reading gaol
William Butler Yeats:            When you are old
Anonymous:                           Popas ultim

Afterthoughts:

Rupert Brooke:                         The Soldier
Robert Frost:                             Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Maey E. Frye:                            Do not stand by my grave and weep
Wilfred Owen:                           Dulce et Decorum Est
Christina Rossetti:                    Remember
William Butler Yeats:               He wishes for the cloths of heaven

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Abendlied/Nocturno
                                                    Maidlied/May Day Celebrations
                                                    Neue Liebe, Neue Leben -
                                                    New Love, New Life
                                                    Gesang der Geister uber den Wassern -
                                                    Spirit Song over the Waters
Matthias Claudius:                   Abendlied/Evening Song
Hermann Hesse:                       Stufen/Steps
Frederick von Schiller:            Ode an die Freude/Ode to Joy    
                                                                                                        

Dimitrie Anghel:

In grãndinã

Mirestme dulci de flori mã-mbatã si mã alintã gînduri blînde….
Ce iertãtor si bun ti-i gîndul, în preajma florilor plãpînde !
Rîd în grãmadã: flori de nalbã si albe flori de mãrgãrint,
De parc-ar fi cãzut pe straturi un stol de fluturi de argint.

Sfioase-s boltile spre sarã, si mai sfioasã-s iasomia:
Pe fata ei neprihãnitã se-nganã-n veci mêlancolia
Seninului de zare stinsã, si-n trandafiri au foi de cearã
Trãiesc mîhnirile si plînge norocul zilelor de varã.

Atîtea amintiri uitate cad abãtute de-o mireasmã:
Parcã-mi arunc-o floare rosã o mînã albã de fantasmã
S-un chip bãlan lîng-o fereastrã rãsare-n fulger si se stinge…
De-atuncea mi-a rãmas garoafa pe suflet ca un strop de stînge.

Ca nalba de curat odatã eram, si visuri de argint
Imi surîdeau eu drag, cum rîde lumina-n foi de mãrgãrint, 
Si dulci treceau zilele toate , si-arar dureri dãdeau ocoale…
Ah, amintirile-s ca fulgii rãmasi uitati in cuiburi goale!

Guillaume Apollinaire

Le pont Mirabeau

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine                    
Et  nos amours
Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine.

Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en  vont je demeure

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face

Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l’onde si lasse

Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure

L’amour s’en va comme cette eau courante      
L’amour s’en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l’espérance est violente

Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure

Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

Tudor Arghezi:

Tinca

Coşul ei cu soare,
Proptit în şold, pe cingătoare,
Ducea snopi de ochi galbeni, cu gene de lapte,
Şi garoafe de noapte.
În sânul ei ca mura
Îşi pironeau căutătura
Domnii zvelţi din jurul mesii,
- "Cine mai ia florile miresii?"

Fă, Tinco, fă! papucii de mătase,
Mărgelele, cerceii nu ţi i-a dat Năstase-        
Şi-n fiecare deşti câte-un inel
Nu ţi l-a strîns cu mîinile lui, el.

Cine ţi-a frămîntat carnea de abanos
Şi ţi-a băut oftatul mincinos?
Cui i-ai dat, fă, să ţi-o cunoască
Făptura ta împarateasca?

Cine ţi-a dezlegat părul cu miros de tutun?
Cine ţi-a scos cămaşa, ciorapul?
Cine ţi-a îngropat capul
Nebun,
În braţele lui noduroase, păroase,
Şi te-a-nfrigurat fierbinte până-n oase?

Tu n-ai voit să spui
Nimănui
Unde înnoptai,
Curvă dulce, cu mărgăritărel de mai!
Vezi, Năstase osânditul
Nu te-a pătruns decât o dată;
Şi atuncea toată,
Cu tot cuţitul.
                                                                                                                                                                        

Prigoana

Pornirã si norii.
Convoaie duc toamna-n mormant.
Grãmezi de lintolii se sfîsie-n vant.
În luptã cu corbii, vartej cu  cocorii,
Sosesc în cohorte, se duc în cirezi,
Ca bivolii negri, întinsi dupã coarne,
Nãvalã de suier, de suflet si carne -
Si doliul înfasã tãrii si livezi.

Din negurã fulgerul sare.
L-astupã un munte ce trece
Si-apòi se despicã în zece.
Pe culmi zboarã spume si valuri de sare
Cu monstrii de manã aleargã zmintite
Femeile slute, cu muget de vite,
Subt biciul din haos ce serpuie-n zare,
Manat gigantul Satan gol, cãlare.

Mari teste se-azvarlã din umãr.
De streaming atarnã martiri fãrã numãr.
Statùi se rãstoarnã în holde de fum.
Se cleatinã cerul în drum
Si frigul strãpunge golanii
Si bantuie ploaia castanii
Si sufletul geme muscat de trecut,
Ca fiara, de-o fiarã cu pas cunoscut.

Si totul se-ncheagã si-n gol se prãvale
Cu scrisnet, cu spaimã, cu jale.
În ripi stau la pandã satirii, ciclopii,
Frecandu-si spinarea de marginea gropii.
Puternicii beznei si rãii pãdurii
S-au strans pentru pradã, ca furii.

Flori de mucegai

Le-am scris cu unghia pe tencuială                          
Pe un părete de firidă goală,
Pe întuneric, în singurătate,
Cu puterile neajutate
Nici de taurul, nici de leul, nici de vulturul
Care au lucrat împrejurul
Lui Luca, lui Marcu şi lui Ioan.
Sunt stihuri fără an,
Stihuri de groapă,
De sete de apă
Şi de foame de scrum,
Stihurile de acum.
Când mi s-a tocit unghia îngereasca
Am lăsat-o să crească
Şi nu a mia crescut -
Sau nu o mai am cunoscut.

Era întuneric. Ploaia bătea departe, afară.
Şi mă durea mâna ca o ghiară
Neputincioasă să se strângă
Şi m-am silit să scriu cu unghiile de la mâna stângă.

Testament

.

Nu-ţi voi lăsa drept bunuri, după moarte,
Decât un nume adunat pe-o carte,                     
În seara răzvrătită care vine
De la străbunii mei până la tine,
Prin rapi şi gropi adânci
Suite de bătrânii mei pe brânci
Şi care, tânăr, să le urci te-aşteaptă
Cartea mea-i, fiule, o treaptă.

Aşeaz-o cu credinţa căpătâi.
Ea e hrişovul vostru cel dintâi.
Al robilor cu săricile, pline
De osemintele vărsate-n mine.

Ca să schimbăm, acum, intâia oară
Sapa-n condei şi brazda-n calimară
Bătrinii-au adunat, printre plavani,
Sudoarea muncii sutelor de ani.
Din graiul lor cu-ndemnuri pentru vite
Eu am ivit cuvinte potrivite
Şi leagane urmaşilor stăpâni.
Şi, frământate mii de săptămâni
Le-am prefecut în versuri şi-n icoane,
Făcui din zdrenţe muguri şi coroane.
Veninul strâns l-am preschimbat în miere,
Lăsând întreaga dulcea lui putere
Am luat ocara, şi torcând uşure
Am pus-o când să-mbie, când să-njure.
Am luat cenuşa morţilor din vatră
Şi am făcut-o Dumnezeu de piatră,
Hotar înalt, cu două lumi pe poale,
Păzând în piscul datoriei tale.

Durerea noastra surdă şi amara
O grămădii pe-o singură vioară,
Pe care ascultând-o a jucat
Stăpânul, ca un ţap înjunghiat.
Din bube, mucegaiuri şi noroi
Iscat-am frumuseţi şi preţuri noi.
Biciul răbdat se-ntoarce în cuvinte
Si izbăveste-ncet pedesitor
Odrasla vie-a crimei tuturor.
E-ndreptăţirea ramurei obscure
Ieşită la lumină din padure
Şi dând în vârf, ca un ciorchin de negi
Rodul durerii de vecii întregi.

Întinsă leneşă pe canapea,
Domniţa suferă în cartea mea.
Slovă de foc şi slovă faurită
Împarechiate-n carte se mărită,
Ca fierul cald îmbrăţişat în cleşte.
Robul a scris-o, Domnul o citeşte,
Făr-a cunoaşte ca-n adîncul ei
Zace mania bunilor mei.

Blesteme

Prin undele holdei şi câmpi de cucută,
Fugarii-au ajuns în pustie
La ceasul când luna-n zabranice, mută,
Intră ca un taur cu cornu-n stihie,
Şi gândul meu gândul acestora-l ştie:

In împărăţie de bezna şi lut să se facă
Grădina bogată şi ogada saracă.
Cetatea să cada-n nămol,
Păzită de spini şi de gol.

Usca-s-ar izvoarele toate şi marea,
Şi stinge-s-ar soarele ca lumânarea.
Topească-se zarea ca scrumul.
Funingini, cenuşă, s-a acopere drumul,
Să nu mai dea ploaie, şi vântul
Să zacă-mbrâncit cu pământul.
Sobolii şi viermii să treacă pribegi
Prin stârvuri de glorii întregi.
Sa fete în purpură şorecii sute.
Gânganii şi molii necunoscute
Să-şi facă-n tezaur cuibare,
Sătule de aur şi mărgăritare.
Pe strunele de la viori şi ghitare
Să-ntinză păianjeni corzi necântătoare.

Întâi, însă, viaţa, bolind de durată,
Să nu înceteze deodată,
Şi chinul să-nceapă cu-ncetul.
Să usture aerul greu, ca oţelul.
Să şchiopete ziua ca luntrea dogită,
Să-ntârzie ora în timp să se-nghită,
Şi, nemarginită, secundă
Să-şi trecă prin suflet, gigantica, undă:
Pe sârma tăioasa-a veciei, în scame
Şi rumegătură să vi se destrame.
Gâtlejul, fierbinte de sete,
Să cate scuipat să se-mbete,
Şi limba umflată-ntre buze
Să lingă lumina şi ea să refuze,
Si-n vreme ce apă din seşuri se strânge,
Să soarbă-n mocirla copitelor sânge.  
Şi strugurii viei storşi cu muşcătură
Să lase in gură coptură.
Coboară-se cerul, furtuni de alice
În câmp să v-alunge cu stelele-n bice.
Despice-se piatra în colţi mici de cremeni,
Vârtej urmărindu-i pe semeni.
Odihna cerându-i, pământul să-ntepe
Ivindu-se şerpii când somnul începe

Pe tine, cadavru spoit su unsoare,
Te blestem sã te-mputi pe picioare.
Sã-ti creascã mãduva, bogatã si largã,
Umflatã-n sofale, mutatã pe targã.
Sã nu se cunoascã de frunte piciorul,
Rotund ca dovleacul, gingas urciorul.
Oriunde cu zgîriuri ghicesti mãdulare,
Sã simpti cã te arde putin fiecure.
Un ochi sã se stringã si sã se sugrume
Clipind de-amãruntul, întors cãtre lume,
Celalt sã-ti rãmîie holbat si deschis
Si rece-mpietrit ca-ntr-un vis.
Cînd ura te-neacã si-ti scînteie-n oase
Sã vrei peste mie, sã poti pîn’la sase.
Necazul tãu mare sã dea voce micã,
Sã urli, sa n-auzi, sã vezi cã ti-e fricã.
Iar tie, jivinã gingas gînditoire,
Sã-ti fie sezutul cuprins de zãvoare.
Ficatul un cui sã-ti frãmînte.
Urechea sã tipe si nasul sã-ti cînte.
Sã-ti crape mãselele-n gurã
Si dintii cu detunãturã.
Sa-ti putã sãrutul, oftarul sã-ti putã,
Mormînt cu mocirla stãrutã.
O unghie pe septãmînã
Sã-ti coacã la cîte o mînã,
Si-n zilele de sãrbãtoare
Un deget si de la picioare.
De pofte sã-ti sece obrazul,
De bube sã nu-ti misti grumazul,
Sa-ti iasã cocoasã
Si gîlci si cucuie-n cãmasã.
Buricul bubat din nãscare
Sã-ti sîngere sub cingãtoare.
De glezne tîris sã-ti atîrne
Ghiulele de capete cîrne,
Rînjite, scrîsnite si nerãzbunate:
Mãceluri, osîndã, pãcate…

Printul 

Biruitor de lifte si jivine,
Asteapta darz, la randu-i biruit,
Si ochii lui, de patru timpuri pline,
Incremeniti pe zare, n-au drmit.

Pe locul unde si-a rapus vrajmasii
Iar slava lor tarana a cazut,
S-au aratat, in urma, -n sange, pasii
Curteniilor sireti ce l-au vandut.

Inchis in turnul mortii din porunca,
Printul e-ntreg, dar gandurile-l dor,
Ca niste vulturi negri ce-si arunca
Intre cotete rotirile lor.

Si cand il rod paduchii cotecodât
Pe dedesubtul platosei domnesti,
Printul te simte, spada fermecata,
Prinsa de sold, c-ai tremurat si cresti.

Creion

Obrajii tăi mi-s dragi

Cu ochii lor ca lacul,

În care se-oglindesc

Azurul şi copacul

.

Surâsul tău mi-i drag,

Căci e ca piatra-n fund,

Sper care-noată albi

Peşti lungi cu ochi rotund

.

Şi capul tău mi-i drag,

Căci e ca malu-n stuf,

Unde păianjeni dorm,

Pe zori făcute puf.

Făptura ta întreaga

De chin şi bucurie,

Nu trebuie să-mi fie,

De ce să-mi fie dragă?

Psalm

Te drămuiesc în zgomot şi-n tăcere

Şi te pândesc în timp, ca pe vânat,

Să văd: eşti şoimul meu cel căutat?

Să te ucid? Sau să-ngenunchi a cere-

Pentru credinţă sau pentru tãgadă,

Te caut dârz şi fără de folos.

Eşti visul meu, din toate, cel frumos

Şi nu-ndrăznesc să te dobor din cer grămadă.

Ca-n oglindirea unui drum de apă,

Pari când a fi, pari când ca nu mai eşti;

Te-ntrezării în stele, printre peşti,
Ca taurul sălbatec când se-adapă.

Singuri, acum în marea ta poveste,

Rămân cu tine să mă mai măsor,

Fără să vreau să ies biruitor.

Vreau să te pipăi şi să urlu: "Este!"

George Bacova:

Lacustrã

De-atâtea nopti aud plouand,
Aud materia plângând…
Sunt singur, si mã duce-un gând
Spre locuintele lacustre.

Si parcã dorm pe scânduri ude,
In spate ma izbeste-un val-
Tresar din somn, si mi se pare
Ca n-am tras podul de la mal.

Un gol istoric se întinde,
Pe-aceleasi vremuri ma gãnesc…
Si simt cum de-atâta ploaie
Pilotii grei se prabusesc.

De-atatea noprti aud plouand,
Tot tresãrind, tot asteptând…
Sunt singur, si ma duce-un gând
Spre locuintele lacustre…

Lacustrine

So many nights I’ve heard the rain,
Have heard the matter weeping…
I am alone, my mind is drawn
Towards lacustrine dwellings

As though I slept on wet boards,
A wave will slap me in the back-
I start from sleep, and it seems
I havent drawn the bridge from the bank.

A void of history extends,
I find myself in the same times…
And sense how th rough so much rain
The heavy timber stilts are tumbling.

So many nights I’ve heard the rain,
Always starting, always waiting…
I am alone, my mind is drawn
Towards lacustrine dwellings…

Plumb

Dorneau adânc sicriele de plumb,
Si flori de plumb si funerar vesmânt -
Stam singur în cavon… si era vânt …
Si scârtâiau coroanele de plumb.

Dormea întors amoral meu de plumb
Pe flori de plumb, si-am inceput sã-l strig-
Stan singur lângã mort…si era frig…
Si-i atârnau aripile de plumb.

Lead

The coffins of lead were lying sound asleep,
And the lead flowers and the funeral clothes-
I stood alone in the vault…and there was wind…
And the leaves of lead creaked.

Upturned my lead beloved lay asleep
On the lead flowers …and I began to call-
I stood alone by the corpse…and it was cold…
And the wings of lead drooped.

Note de primavara

Verda crud, verde crud…
Mugur alb, si roz si pur,
Vis de-albastru si de-azur,
Te mai vãd, te mai aud!

Oh, puncteazã cu-al tãu foc,
Soare, soare…
Corpul ce întreg ma doare,
Sub al vremurilor joc.

Dintr-un fluier de rãchitã,
Primãvarã,
O copilã popositã la fântânã
Te îngana
Pe cârupia clarã…

Verde crud, verde crud…
Mugur alb, si roz si pur,
Te mai vãd, te mai aud,
Vis de-albastru si de-azur.

Spring notes

Fresh green, fresh green…
Bud white and pink and pure,
Dream of blue and of azure,
I see you, hear you again:

Oh sun, sun,
Inject with your flames
My whole body aching
In the play of the times.

Spring,
On a willow flute, a Young
Girl resting at the well
Echoes you
Over the clear plain…

Fresh green, fresh green…
Bud white and pink and pure,
I see you, hear you again?
Dream of blue and of azure.

Charles Baudelaire:

Au lectuer

La sottise, l’erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.




Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.




Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.




C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.




Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.




Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.




Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.




Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,




II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;




C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
— Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère

L’albatros

Souvent, pour s’amuser, les hommes d’equipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navirre glissant sur les gouffres amers.

A peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Qui ces rois de l’azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons trainer à côté d’eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu’il est comique et laid!
L’un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L’autre mime, en boitant, l’infirme qui volait!

Le Poête est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer,
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l’empêchent de marcher.

Hymne a la beauté

Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de l’abime,
O Beauté? Ton regard , infernal et divin,
Verse confusément le bienfait et le crime,
Et l’on peut pour cela te comparer au vin.

Tu contiens dans ton œil le couchant et l’aurore;
Tu répands des parfums comme un soir orageux;
Tes baisers sont un philtre et ta bouche un amphore
Qui font le héros lâche et l’enfant courageux.

Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?
Le destin charmé suit tes jupons comme un chien.
Tu sèmes au hasard la joie et les désastres.
Et tu gouvernes tout et ne réponds de rien.

Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu te moques,
De tes bijoux l’Horreur n’est pas le moins charmant,
Et le Meurtre,  parmi les plus chères breloques,
Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement.

L’éphémère ébloui voie vers toi, chandelle,
Crépite, flambe et dit Bénissons ce flambeau!
L’amoureux pantelant incliné sur sa belle
A l’air d’un moribond caressant son tombeau.

Que tu viennes du ciel ou de l’enfer, qu’importe,
Ô Beauté! Monstre énorme, effrayant, ingênu!
Si ton œil, ton souris, ton pied, m’ouvrent la porte
D’un infini que j’aime et n’ai jamais connu?

De Satan ou de dieu, qu’importe? Ange ou Sirène,
Qu’importe, si tu rends - fée aux yeux de veloues,
Rythme, parfum, lueur, ô mon unique reine! -
L’univers moins hideux et les instants moins lourds?

L’homme et la mer

Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!
La mer est ton miroir, tu tu contemples ton âme
Dans le déroulement infin de sa lame,
Et ton esprit n’est pas un gouffre moins amer.

Tu te plais à plonger au sein  de ton image,
Tu l’embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton cœur
Se distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeur
Au bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.

Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:
Homme, nul n’a sondé le fond de tes abîmes,
Ô mer, nul ne connait les richesses intimes,
Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!

Et cependant voilà des siècles innombrable
Que vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,
Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,
Ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!

L’invitation au voyage

Ma sœur, mon enfant
Songe à la douceur
D’aller là-bas vivre ensemle!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traitres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Des meubles luisant,
Polis par les ans,
Décoreraient notre chambre;
Les plus rares fleurs
Mèlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l’ambre,
Les riches plafonds,
Le miroirs profonds,
La splendeur orientale,
Tout y parlerait
A l’âme en secret
Sa douce langue natal

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté, 
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l’humeur est vagabonde;
C’est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu’ils viennent du bout du monde.
Les soleils couchants
Revètent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
L’hyacinthe et d’or;
Le monde s’endort
Dans une chaud lumière.

Là tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

La morts des amants 

Nous aurons des lits pleine d’odeurs légères,
Des divans profonds comme des tombeaux,
Et d’étrange fleurs sur des étagères,
Ecloses pour nous sous des cieux plus beaux.

Usant à l’envi leurs chaleurs dernières,
Nos deux cœurs seront deux vastes flambeaux,
Qui réfléchiront leurs doubles lumières
Dans nos deux esprits, ces miroirs jumeaux.

Un soit fait de rose et de bleu mystique,
Nous échangerons un éclair unique,
Comme un long sanglot, tout chargé d’adieux;

Et plus tard un Ange, entre ouvrant les portes,
Viendra ranimer, fidèle et joyeux,
Les miroirs ternis et les flammes mortes.

Le Lethe

Viens sur mon cœur, âme cruelle et sourde,
Tigre adoré, monstre aux airs indolents:
Je veux longtemps plonger mes doigts tremblants
Dans l’épaisseur de ta crinière lourde;

Dans tes jupons remplis de ton parfum
Ensevelir ma tête endolorie,
Et respirer, comme une fleur flétrie,
Le doux relent de mon amour défunt.

Je veux dormir! Dormir plutôt que vivre!
Dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort,
J’étalerai mes baisers sans remond
Sur ton beau corps poli comme le cuivre.

Pour engloutir mes sanglots apaisés
Rien ne me vaut l’abîme de ta couche;
L’oubli poussant habite sur ta bouche,
Et le Léthé coule dans ces baisers.

A mon destin, désormais mon délice,
J’obéirai comme un prédestiné;
Martyr docile, innocent condamné,
Dont la ferveur attise le supplice,

 Je sucerai, pour noyer ma rancœur,
Le népenthès et la bonne ciguë
Aux bouts charmants de cette gorge aiguë
Qui n’a jamais emprisonné de cœur.

Recueillment

Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.
Tu réclamais le Soir ; il descend ; le voici :
Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.

Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
Ma douleur, donne-moi la main ; viens par ici,

Loin d'eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,
Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées ;
Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant ;

Le Soleil moribond s'endormir sous une arche,
Et, comme un long linceul traînant à l'Orient,
Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.

William Blake:

Fragment from Auguries of Innocence
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

Lord George Gordon Byron:

So we’ll go no more a-roving

So we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
And the moon still be as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul outwears the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day return too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

George Cosbuc:

Moartea lui Fulger

În goana roibului un sol,
Cu frâu-n dinţi şi-n capul gol,
Răsare, creşte-n zări venind,
Şi zările de-abia-l cuprind,
Şi-n urmă-i corbii croncănind
Aleargă stol.

El duce regelui răspuns
Din tabără. Şi ţine-ascuns
Sub straiul picurând de ploi
Pe cel mai bun dintre eroi -
Atâta semn de la război,
Şi-a fost de-ajuns!

Pe Fulger mort! Pe-un mal străin
L-a fulgerat un braţ hain!
De-argint e alb frumosu-i port,
Dar roş de sânge-i albul tort,
Şi pieptul gol al celui mort
De lănci e plin.

 Sărmanul crai! Când l-a văzut
Şi, când de-abia l-a cunoscut,
Cu vuiet s-a izbit un pas
De spaimă-n lături şi-a rămas
Cu pumnii strânşi, fără de glas,
Ca un pierdut.

Să-i moară Fulger? Poţi sfărma
Şi pe-un voinic ce cuteza
Să-nalţe dreapta lui de fier
Să prindă fulgerul din cer?
Cum pier mişeii dacă pier
Cei buni aşa?

Dar mâine va mai fi pământ?
Mai fi-vor toate câte sînt!
Când n-ai de-acum să mai priveşti
Pe cel frumos, cum însuti eşti,
De dragul cui să mai trăieşti,
Tu soare sfânt?

Dar doamna! Suflet pustiit!
Cu părul alb şi despletit
Prin largi iatacuri alerga,
Cu hohot lung ea blestema,
Şi tot palatul plin era
De plâns cumplit.

La stat şi umblet slabă ce-i!
Topiţi sunt ochii viorei
De-atâta vaiet nentrerupt
Şi graiul stins şi-obrazul supt
Şi tot vestmântul doamnei rupt
De mâna ei!

- "De dorul cui şi de-al cui drag
Să-mi plângă sufletul pribeag,
Întreaga noaptea nedormind,
Ca s-aud roibii tropotind,
Să sar din pat, s-alerg în prag,
Să te cuprind!

Nu-l dau din braţe nimănui!
Închideti-mă-n groapa lui -
Mă laşi tu, Fulgere, să mor?
Îti laşi părinţii-n plâns şi dor?
O, du-i cu tine, drag odor,
O, du-i, o, du-i!

Ah, mamă, tu! Ce slabă eşti!
N-ai glas de vifor, să jeleşti;
N-ai mâini de fier, ca fier să frângi;
N-ai mări de lacrămi, mări să plângi,
Nu eşti de foc, la piept să-l strângi,
Să-l încalzesti!

Şi tu, cel spre bătăi aprins,
Acum eşti potolit şi stins!
N-auzi nici trâmbiţile-n văi,
Nu vezi cum sar grăbiţi ai tăi -
Râdeai de moarte prin bătăi,
Dar ea te-a-nvins.

Pe piept, colac de grâu de-un an,
Şi-n loc de galben buzdugan,
Făclii de ceară ţi-au făcut
În dreapta cea fără temut,
Şi-n mâna care poartă scut
Ţi-au pus un ban.

Cu făclioara, pe-unde treci,
Dai zare negrilor poteci
În noaptea negrului pustiu,
Iar banu-i vamă peste râu.
Merinde ai colac de grâu
Pe-un drum de veci.

Şi-ntr-un coşciug de-argint te-au pus
Deplin armat, ca-n ceruri sus
Să fii întreg ce-ai fost mereu,
Să tremure sub pasu-ţi greu
Albastrul cer, la Dumnezeu
Când vei fi dus.

Miraţi şi de răsuflet goi,
Văzându-ţi chipul de război,
Să steie îngerii-nlemnit;
Şi, orb de-al armelor sclipit,
S-alerge soarele-napoi
Spre răsărit!...

Iar când a fost la-nmormântat,
Toţi morţii parcă s-au sculat
Să-şi plângă pe ortacul lor,
Aşa era de mult popor
Venit să plângă pe-un fecior
De împarat!

 Şi popi, şirag, cădelniţând
Ceteau ectenii de comând -
Şi clopote, şi plâns, şi vai,
Ş-oştenii-n şir, şi pas de cai,
Şi sfetnici, şi feciori de crai,
Şi nat de rând.

Şi mă-sa, biata! Cum gemea
Şi blestema, şi se izbea
Să sară-n groapă: - "L-au închis
Pe veci! Mi-a fost şi mie scris
Să mă deştept plângând din vis,
Din lumea mea!

Ce urmă lasă şoimii-n zbor?
Ce urmă, peştii-n apa lor?
Să fii cât munţii de voinic,
Ori cât un pumn să fii de mic,
Cărarea mea şi-a tuturor
E tot nimic!

Că tot ce eşti şi tot ce poţi,
Părere-i tot dacă socoţi -
De mori târziu ori mori curând,
De mori sătul, ori mori flămând,
Totuna e! Şi rând pe rând
Ne ducem toţi!

Eu vreau cu Fulger să rămân!
Ah, Dumnezeu, nedrept stăpân,
M-a duşmănit trăind mereu
Şi-a pizmuit norocul meu!
E un păgân şi Dumnezeu,
E un păgân.

De ce sa cred in el de-acum?
În fata lui au toti un drum,
Ori buni, ori rai, tot un mormânt!
Nu-i nimeni drac si nimeni sfânt!
Credinta-i val, iubirea vânt
Si viata fum!

Si-a fost minune ce spunea!
Grabit poporul cruci fãcea
De mila ei, si sta-ngrozit -
Si-atunci un sfetnic a venit
Si-n fata doamnei s-a oprit,
Privind la ea.

Un sfânt de-al cãrui chip te temi
Abia te-aude când îl chemi:
Bãtrân ca vremea, stâlp rãmas,
Nãscut cu lumea într-un ceas,
El parcâ-i viul parastas
Al altor vremi.

Si sprijin pe toiag catând
Si-ncet cu mâna ridicând
Spâncenele, din rostu-i rar,
Duios cuvintele rasar:
‘Nepoatã dragã! De-n zadar
Te vãd plângând.

De cum te zbuciumi, tu te stingi
Şi inima din noi o frângi -
Ne doare c-a fost scris aşa,
Ne dori mai rău cu jalea ta:
De-aceea, doamnă, te-am ruga
Să nu mai plângi.

Pe cer când soarele-i apus,
De ce să plângi privind în sus?
Mai bine ochii-n jos să-i pleci,
Să vezi pământul pe-unde treci!
El nu e mort! Trăieşte-n veci,
E numai dus.

N-am cap şi chip pe toţi să-i spui
Şi-aş spune tot ce ştiu, dar cui?
Că de copil eu m-am luptat
În rând cu Volbură-mpărat
Şi ştiu pe Crivăţ cel turbat
Ca ţara lui.

Ce oameni! Ce sunt cei de-acum!
Şi toţi s-au dus pe-acelaşi drum.
Ei şi-au plinit chemarea lor
Şi i-am văzut murind uşor;
N-a fost nici unul plângător,
Că viaţa-i fum.

Zici fum? O, nu-i adevărat.
Război e, de viteji purtat!
Viaţa-i datorie grea
Şi laşii se-ngrozesc de ea -
Să aibă tot cei laşi ar vrea
Pe neluptat.

De ce să-ntrebi viaţa ce-i?
Aşa se-ntreabă cei miş
Cei buni n-au vreme de gândit
La moarte şi la tânguit,
Căci plânsu-i de nebuni scornit
Şi de femei!

Trăieşte-ţi, doamnă, viaţa ta!
Şi-a morţii lege n-o căta!
Sunt crai ce schimb-a lumii sorţi,
Dar dacă mor, ce grijă porţi?
Mai simte-n urmă cineva
Că ei sunt morţi?

Dar ştiu un lucru mai pe sus
De toate câte ţi le-am spus:
Credinţa-n zilele de-apoi
E singura tărie-n noi,
Că multe-s tari cum credem noi
Şi mâine nu-s!

Şi-oricât de amărâţi să fim
Nu-i bine să ne dezlipim
De cel ce vieţile le-a dat! -
O fi viaţa chin răbdat,
Dar una ştiu: ea ni s-a dat
Ca s-o trăim!

Ea n-a mai plâns, pierdut privea

La sfetnic, lung, dar nu-l vedea
Şi n-a mai înteles ce-a zis
Şi nu vedea cum au închis
Sicriul alb - era un vis
Şi ea-l trăia.

Senini de plânset ochii ei,
Vedea bărbaţi, vedea femei,
Cu spaimă mută-n jur privea.
Din mult nimic nu-nţelegea;
Şi să muncea să ştie ce-i.
Şi nu putea.

I-a fulgerat deodată-n gând
Să râdă, căci vedea plângând
O lume-ntreagă-n rugăciuni. -
"În faţa unei gropi s-aduni
Atâta lume de nebuni!
Să mori râzând...

Şi clopotele-n limba lor
Plângeau cu glas tânguitor;
Şi-adânc, din bubuitul frânt
Al bulgărilor de pământ,
Vorbea un glas, un cântec sfânt
Şi nălţător:

"Nu cerceta aceste legi,
Că eşti nebun când le-nţelegi!
Din codru rupi o rămurea,
Ce-i pasă codrului de ea!
Ce-i pasă unei lumi întregi
De moartea mea!
Samual Taylor Coleridge

Work without hope

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair--

The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--

And WINTER slumbering in the open air,

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring !

And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,

Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.

Bloom, O ye Amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may,

For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away !

With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll :

And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul ?

WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,

And HOPE

Mihai Eminescu:

Mortua est

Făclie de veghe pe umezi morminte,

Un sunet de clopot în orele sfinte,

Un vis ce îsi moaie aripa-n amar,
Astfel ai trecut de al lumii hotar.

Trecut-ai când ceru-i câmpie senină,

Cu râuri de lapte şi flori de lumină,

Când norii cei negri par sombre palate,

De luna regină pe rând vizitate.

Te văd ca o umbră de-argint strălucită,

Cu-aripi ridicate la ceruri pornită,

Suind, palid suflet, a norilor schele,

Prin ploaie de raze, ninsoare de stele.

O rază te-nalţă, un cântec te duce,

Cu braţele albe pe piept puse cruce,

Când torsul s-aude l-al vrăjilor caier

Argint e pe ape şi aur în aer.

Văd sufletu-ţi candid prin spaţiu cum trece;

Privesc apoi lutul rămas... alb şi rece,

Cu haina lui lungă culcat în sicriu,

Privesc la surâsu-ţi rămas înca viu -

Şi-ntreb al meu suflet rănit de-ndoială,

De ce-ai murit, înger cu faţa cea pală?

Au nu ai fost jună, n-ai fost tu frumoasă?

Te-ai dus spre a stinge o stea radioasă?

Dar poate acolo să fie castele

Cu arcuri de aur zidite din stele,

Cu râuri de foc şi cu poduri de-argint,

Cu ţărmuri de smirnă, cu flori care cânt;

Să treci tu prin ele, o sfântă regină,

Cu păr lung de raze, cu ochi de lumină,

În haină albastră stropită cu aur,

Pe fruntea ta pală cunună de laur.

O, moartea e-un chaos, o mare de stele,
Când viaţa-i o baltă de vise rebele;

O, moartea-i un secol cu sori înflorit,

Când viaţa-i un basmu pustiu şi urât. -

Dar poate... o! capu-mi pustiu cu furtune,

Gândirile-mi rele sugrum' cele bune..

Când sorii se sting şi când stelele pică,

Îmi vine a crede că toate-s nimică.

Se poate ca bolta de sus să se spargă,
Să cadă nimicul cu noaptea lui largă,

Să văd cerul negru că lumile-şi cerne

Ca prăzi trecătoare a morţii eterne...

Ş-atunci de-a fi astfel... atunci în vecie

Suflarea ta caldă ea n-o să învie,
Atunci graiu-ţi dulce în veci este mut...

Atunci acest înger n-a fost decât lut.

Şi totuşi, ţărână frumoasă şi moartă,

De racla ta razim eu harfa mea spartă

Şi moartea ta n-o plâng, ci mai fericesc

O rază fugită din chaos lumesc.

Ş-apoi... cine ştie de este mai bine

A fi sau a nu fi... dar ştie oricine

Că ceea ce nu e, nu simte dureri,

Şi multe dureri-s, puţine plăceri.

A fi? Nebunie şi tristă şi goală;

Urechea te minte şi ochiul te-nşală;

Ce-un secol ne zice ceilalţi o deszic.

Decât un vis sarbăd, mai bine nimic.

Văd vise-ntrupate gonind după vise,

Pân' dau în morminte ce-aşteaptă deschise,

Şi nu ştiu gândirea-mi în ce o să stâng:

Să râd ca nebunii? Să-i blestem? Să-i plâng?

La ce?... Oare totul nu e nebunie?

Au moartea ta, înger, de ce fu să fie?

Au e sens în lume? Tu chip zâmbitor,

Trăit-ai anume ca astfel să mori?

De e sens într-asta, e-ntors şi ateu,

Pe palida-ţi frunte nu-i scris Dumnezeu.

Mortua est

Two candles, tall sentry, beside an earth mound,

A dream with wings broken that trail to the ground,

Loud flung from the belfry calamitous chime...

'Tis thus that you passed o'er the boundaries of time

Gone by are the hours when the heavens entire

Flowed rivers of milk and grew flowers of fire,

When the thunderous clouds were but castles erect

Which the moon like a queen each in turn did inspect.

I see you a shadow bright silver transcending,

With wings high uplifted to heaven ascending,

I see you slow climbing through the sky's scaffold bars

Midst a tempest of light and a snowstorm of stars;

While the witches the sound of their spinning prolong,

Exalted in sunshine, swept up by a song,

O'er your breast like a saint your white arms crossed in prayer,

And gold on the water, and silver in the air.

I see your soul's parting, its flight I behold;

Then gaze at the clay that remains... mute and cold,

At the winding-sheet clung to the coffin's rude sill,

At your smile sweet and candid, that seems alive still.

And I ask times unending my soul torn with doubt,

O why, pallid angel, your light has gone out,

For were you not blameless and wonderfully fair?

Have you gone to rekindle a star in despair?

I fancy on high there are things without name,

Broad rivers of fire spanned by bridges of flame,

Strange castles that spires till the zenith up fling,

With stairways of incense and flowers that sing.

And you wander among them, a worshipful queen,

With hair of bright starlight and eyes vespertine,

In a tunic of turquoise bespattered with gold,
While a wreath of green laurels does your forehead enfold.

O, death is chaos, an ocean of stars gleaming,

While life is a quagmire of doubts and of dreaming.

Oh, death is an aeon of sun-blazoned spheres,

'While life but a legend of wailing and tears.

Through my head beats a whirlwind, a clamorous wrangle

Of thoughts and of dreams that despair does entangle;

For when suns are extinguished and meteors fall

The whole universe seems to mean nothing at all.

Maybe that one day the arched heavens will sunder,

And down through their break all the emptiness thunder,

Void's night o'er the earth its vast nothing extending,

The loot of an instant of death without ending.

If so, then forever your flame did succumb,

And forever your voice from today will be dumb.

If so, the hereafter can bring no rebirth.

If so, then this angel was nothing but earth.

And thus, lovely soil that breath has departed,

I stand by your coffin alone broken-hearted;

And yet I don't weep, rather praise for its fleeing

Your ray softly crept from this chaos of being.

For who shall dare which is ill and which well,

The is, or the isn't? Can anyone tell?

For he who is not, even grief can't destroy,

And oft is the grieving, and seldom the joy.

To exist! O, what nonsense, what foolish conceit;

Our eyes but deceive us, our ears but cheat,

What this age discovers, the next will deny,
Far better just nothing than naught but a lie.

I see dreams in men's clothing that after dreams chase,

But that tumble in tombs ere the end of the race,

And I search in my soul how this horror to fly,

To laugh like a madman? To curse? Or to cry?

O, what is the meaning? What sense does agree?

The end of such beauty, had that got to be?
Sweet seraph of clay where still lingers life's smile,

Just in order to die did you live for a while?

O, tell me the meaning. This angel or clod?

I find on her forehead no witness of God.

Melancolie

Părea că printre nouri s-a fost deschis o poartă,

Prin care trece albă regina nopţii moartă.

O, dormi, o, dormi în pace printre făclii o mie

Şi în mormânt albastru şi-n pânze argintie,

În mausoleu-ţi mândru, al cerurilor arc,

Tu adorat şi dulce al nopţilor monarc!

Bogată în întinderi stă lumea-n promoroacă,
Ce sate şi câmpie c-un luciu văl îmbraca;

Văzduhul scânteiază şi ca unse cu var

Lucesc zidiri, ruine pe câmpul solitar.

Şi ţintirimul singur cu strâmbe cruci veghează,

O cucuvaie sură pe una se aşează,

Clopotniţa trosneşte, în stâlpi izbeşte toaca,

Şi străveziul demon prin aer când să treacă,

Atinge-ncet arama cu zimţii-aripei sale

De-auzi din ea un vaier, un aiurit de jale.

Biserica-n ruină

Stă cuvioasă, tristă, pustie şi bătrână,

Şi prin ferestre sparte, prin uşi ţiuie vântul -

Se pare că vrăjeşte şi că-i auzi cuvântul -

Năuntrul ei pe stâlpii-i, pereţi, iconostas,

Abia conture triste şi umbre au rămas;

Drept preot toarce-un greier un gând fin şi obscur,

Drept dascăl toacă cariul sub învechitul mur.

Credinţa zugrăveşte icoanele-n biserici -

Şi-n sufletu-mi pusese poveştile-i feerici,

Dar de-ale vieţii valuri, de al furtunii pas

Abia conture triste şi umbre-au mai rămas.

În van mai caut lumea-mi în obositul creier,
Căci răguşit, tomnatec, vrăjeşte trist un greier;

Pe inima-mi pustie zadarnic mâna-mi ţiu,

Ea bate ca şi cariul încet într-un sicriu.

Şi când gândesc la viaţa-mi, îmi pare că ea cură

Încet repovestită de o străină gură,

Ca şi când n-ar fi viaţa-mi, ca şi când n-aş fi fost.

Cine-i acel ce-mi spune povestea pe de rost

De-mi ţin la el urechea - şi râd de câte-ascult

Ca de dureri străine?... Parc-am murit de mult.

Melancoly

It seemed that midst the clouds a gate was opened wide

Through which the pallid empress of waning night did ride.

O sleep, o sleep in silence, where a thousand torches loom,
Wrapped in your silver garments, high in your crystal tomb,

Your sepulchre of heaven, of sky's arc opaline,

O you beloved, and worshipped, fair moon of night the queen!
Unbounded is the kingdom that dreams beneath your haze,

What villages and valleys are lighted by your rays;

The sky is all a sparkle, and 'neath your pallid gleam

The lonely ruined castle has walls of chalk it seem.

The empty graveyard crouches beside the time-old church,

Its crosses leaning all ways, on one an owl a perch.

The belfry creaks, the toaca against it upright swings

As though some flying demon with dark transparent wings

Had touched it unexpectedly while lighting on the ground,

That it begins to tremble, and gives a wailing sound.

The church, a ruin lorn,

Is bowed and sad and empty, a place of shadows mourn;

And through it's gaping windows a moaning breeze is heard,

As though grey witches whispered and one could hear their word.

On pillars and on altar, and painted walls remain

Naught but the gloomy contours on which time spreads its stain.

For priest a cricket chirps a sermon fine, obscure;

For sexton digs a wood worm eternal sepulchre

Faith sets up in its churches fair icons to the saints,
And in my soul sweet fancy a fairy legend paints;
But of time tossing billows, and wild tumultuous strain,
Naught but the gloomy contours and shadows now remain

In vain I seek what happened in my exhausted mind.

A hoarsely prating cricket is all that I can find.

In vain my hand despairing upon my heart I clench,
Its stir is but a woodworm within the coffin bench.

When I look back on living, the past seems to unfold

As though it were a story by foreign lips retold.

As though I had not lived it, nor made of life a part
Who is it then so softly this tale recites by heart

That I should pause to listen... And laugh at what is said,

As though it never happened?... Maybe since long, I'm dead!

O, rãmãi

"O, rămâi, rămâi la mine,

Te iubesc atât de mult!

Ale tale doruri toate

Numai eu ştiu să le-ascult;

În al umbrei întuneric

Te asamăn unui prinţ,

Ce se uit-adânc în ape

Cu ochi negri şi cuminţi;

Şi prin vuietul de valuri,

Prin mişcarea naltei ierbi,

Eu te fac s-auzi în taină

Mersul cârdului de cerbi;

Eu te văd răpit de farmec

Cum îngâni cu glas domol,

În a apei strălucire

Întinzând piciorul gol

Şi privind în luna plină

La văpaia de pe lacuri,

Anii tăi se par ca clipe,

Clipe dulci se par ca veacuri."

Astfel zise lin pădurea,

Bolţi asupră-mi clătinând;

Şuieram l-a ei chemare

Ş-am ieşit în câmp râzând.

Astăzi chiar de m-aş întoarce

A-nţelege n-o mai pot...

Unde eşti, copilărie,

Cu pădurea ta cu tot?

O, remain

‘O remain, dear one, I love you,
Stay with me in my fair land,
For your dreamings and your longings
Only I can understand.

You, who like a prince reclining
Over the pool with heaven starred;
You who gaze up from the water
With such Earnest deep regard.

Stay, for the where the lapping wavelets
Shake the tall and tasseled grass,
I will make you hear in secret
How the furtive chamois pass.

O, I see you wrapped in magic,
Hear your murmur low and sweet,
As you break the shallow water
With your slender naked feet.

See you thus amidst the apples

Which the moon’s pale beams engage,
And your years seem but an instant,
And each instant seems an age.’

Thus spoke the woods in soft entreaty;
Arching boughs above me bent,
But I whistled high, and laughing
Out into the open went.

Now though even I roamed that country
How could I its charms recall…
Where has boyhood gone, I wonder,
With its pool and woods and all?

Luceafârul

A fost odatã ca-n povesti,
A fost ca niciodatã,
Din rude mari împãrãtesti,
 O prea frumoasa fatã.

Si era una la pãrinti
Si mândra-n toate cele,
Cum e Fecioara între sfinti
 Si luna între stele.

Din umbra falnicelor bolti
Ea pasul si-l îndreaptã
Lânga fereastra, unde-n colt
Luceafarul asteapta

Privea în zare cum pe mãri
 Råsare si straluce,
Pe miscåtoarele cåråri
Coråbii negre duce.

Si pas cu pas pe urma ei
Alunecã-n odaie,
Tesînd cu recile-i scantei
O mreajã de vãpaie.

Si cînd în pat se-ntinde drept
Copila sã se culce,
I-atinge mîinile pe piept,
I-nchide geana dulce;

Si din oglindã luminis
Pe trupu-i se revarsã,
Pe ochii mari, bãtînd închisi
Pe fata ei întoarsã

Ea îl privea cu un surîs,
El tremura-n oglindã,
Cãci o urma adînc în vis
De suflet sã se prindã.

Iar ea vorbind cu el în somn,
Oftînd din greu suspinã:
- "O, dulce-al noptii mele domn,
De ce nu vii tu?Vinã!

Cobori în jos, luceafãr blînd,
Alunecînd pe-o razã,
Pãtrunde-n casã si în gand
Si viata-mi lumineazã!"

El asculta tremurãtor,
Se aprindea mai tare
Si s-arunca fulgerator,
Se cufunda în mare;

Si apã unde-au fost cãzut
în cercuri se roteste,
Si din adînc necunoscut
Un mîndru tanãr creste.

Usor el trece ca pe prag
Pe marginea ferestei
Si tine-n manã un toiag
Încununat cu trestii.

Pãrea un tînãr voievod
Cu pãr de aur moale,
Un vanãt giulgi se-ncheie nod
Pe umerele goale
.
Iar umbra fetei strãvezii
E albã ca de cearã -
Un mort frumos cu ochii vii
Ce scanteie-n afarã

-’Din sfera mea venii cu greu
Ca sã-ti urmez chemarea,
Iar cerul este tatãl meu
Si muma-mea e marea.

Cã în cãmara ta sã vin,
Sã te privesc de-aproape,
Am coborit cu-al meu senin
Si m-am nãscut din ape
.
O, vin'! odorul meu nespus,
Si lumea ta o lasã;
Eu sunt luceafãrul de sus,
Iar tu sã-mi fii mireasã.

Colo-n pãlate de mãrgean
Te-oi duce veacuri multe,
Si toatã lumea-n ocean
De tine o s-asculte."

- "O, esti frumos, cum numa-n vis
Un înger se aratã,
Darã pe calea ce-ai deschi
N-oi merge niciodata

Strãin la vorbã si la port,

Lucesti fãrã de viatã,
Cãci eu sunt vie, tu esti mort,
Si ochiul tãu mã-ngheatã.

Trecu o zi, trecurã trei
Si iarãsi, noaptea, vine
Luceafãrul deasupra ei
Cu razele-i senine.

Ea trebui de el în somn
Aminte sã-si aducã
Si dor de-al valurilor domn
De inim-o apucã
:
- "Cobori în jos, luceafãr blînd,
Alunecînd pe-o razã,
Pãtrunde-n casã si în gînd
Si viata-mi lumineazã!"

Cum el din cer o auzi,
Se stinse cu durere,
Iar ceru-ncepe a roti
în locul unde piere;

In aer rumene vãpãi
Se-ntind pe lumea-ntreagã,
Si din a chaosului vãi
Un mîndru chip se-ncheagã;

Pe negre vitele-i de pãr
Coroana-i arde pare,
Venea plutind în adevãr
Scãldat în foc de soare

Din negru giulgi se desfãsor
Mamore ele brate,
El vine trist si gînditor
Si palid e la fatã;

Dar ochii mari si minunati
Lucesc adînc himeric,
Ca douã patimi fãrã sat
Si pline de--ntuneric.

 "Din sfera mea venii cu greu
Ca sã te-ascult s-acuma,
Si soarele e tatãl meu,
Iar noaptea-mi este muma;

O, vin', odorul meu nespus,
Si lumea ta o lasã;
Eu sunt luceafãrul de sus,
Iar tu sã-mi fii mireasã.

O, vin', în pãrul tãu bãlai
S-anin cununi de stele,
Pe-a mele ceruri sã rãsai
Mai mandrã decît ele

-"O, esti frumos cum numã-n vis
Un demon se aratã,
Darã pe calea ce-ai deschis
N-oi merge niciodatã!

Mã dor de crudul tãu amor
A pieptului meu coarde,
Si ochii mari si grei mã dor,
Privirea ta mã arde."

- "Dar cum ai vrea sã mã cobor?
Au nu-ntelegi tu oare,
Cum cã eu sunt nemuritor,
Si tu esti muritoare?"

- "Nu caut vorbe pe ales,
Nici stiu cum as începe -
Desi vorbesti pe înteles,
Eu nu te pot pricepe;

Dar dacã vrei cu crezãmînt
Sã te-ndrãgesc pe tine,
Tu te coboarã pe pãmînt,
Fii muritor ca mine."

- "Tu-mi cei chiar nemurirea mea
în schimb pe-o sãrutare,
Dar voi sã stii asemenea
Cît te iubesc de tare;

Da, mã voi naste din pãcat,
Primind o altã lege;
Cu vecinicia sunt legat,
Ci voi sã mã dezlege."

Si se tot duce... S-a tot dus.
De dragu-unei copile,
S-a rupt din locul lui de sus,
Pierind mai multe zile.

În vremea asta Cãtãlin,
Viclean copil de casã,
Ce împle cupele cu vin
Mesenilor la masã,

Un paj ce poartã pas cu pas
A-mpãrãtesii rochii,
Bãiat din flori si de pripas,
Dar îndrãznet cu ochii,

Cu obrãjei ca doi bujori
De rumeni, batã-i vina,
Se furiseazã panditor
Privind la Cãtãlina.

Dar ce frumoasã se fãcu
Si mandrã, arz-o focul;
Ei Cãtãlin, acu-i acu
Ca sã-ti încerci norocul.

Si-n treacat o cuprinse lin
Într-un ungher degrabã
- "Da' ce vrei, mãri Cãtãlin?
Ia du-t' de-ti vezi de treabã."

- "Ce voi? As vrea sã nu mai stai
Pe ganduri totdeuna,
Sã razi mai bine si sã-mi dai
O gurã, numai una."

- "Dar nici nu stiu mãcar ce-mi ceri,
Dã-mi pace, fugi departe -
O, de luceafãrul din cer
M-a prins un dor de moarte."

- "Dacã nu stii, ti-as arãta
Din bob în bob amorul,
Ci numai nu te mînia,
Ci stai cu binisorul.

Cum vînãtoru-ntinde-n crîng
La pãsãrele latul,
Cînd ti-oi întinde bratul stang
Sã mã cuprinzi cu bratul;

Si ochii tãi nemiscãtori
Sub ochii mei rãmîie...
De te înalt de subtiori
Te-naltã din cãlcaie;

Cînd fata mea se pleacã-n jos,
În sus rãmai cu fatã,
Sã ne privim nesãtios
Si dulce toatã viata;

Si ca sã-ti fie pe deplin
Iubirea cunoscutã,
Cînd sãrutndu-te mã-nclin,
Tu iarãsi mã sãrutã."

Ea-l asculta pe copilas
Uimitã si distrasã,
Si rusinos si drãgãlas,
Mai nu vrea, mai se lasã,

Si-i zise-ncet: - "încã de mic
Te cunosteam pe tine,
Si guraliv si de nimic,
Te-ai potrivi cu mine..
.
Dar un luceafãr, rãsãrit
Din linistea uitãrii,
Dã orizon nemãrginit
Singurãtãtii mãrii;

Si tainic genele le plec,
Cãci mi le împle plînsul
Cînd ale apei valuri trec
Cãlãtorind spre dansul;

Luceste c-un amor nespus,
Durerea sã-mi alunge,
Dar se înaltã tot mai sus,
Ca sã nu-l pot ajunge.

Pãtrunde trist cu raze reci
Din lumea ce-l desparte..
În veci îl voi iubi si-n veci
Va rãmanea departe...

De-aceea zilele îmi sunt
Pustii ca niste stepe,
Dar noptile-s de-un farmec sfînt
Ce-l nu mai pot pricepe."

- "Tu esti copilã, asta e...
Hai s-om fugi în lume,
Doar ni s-or pierde urmele
Si nu ne-or sti de nume.

Cãci amîndoi vom fi cuminti,
Vom fi voiosi si teferi,
Vei pierde dorul de pãrinti
Si visul de luceferi."

Porni luceafãrul. cresteau
In cer a lui aripe,
Si cãi de mii de ani treceau
În tot atatea clipe.

Un cer de stele dedesupt,
Deasupra-i cer de stele -
Pãrea un fulger nentrerupt
Rãtãcitor prin ele.

Si din a chaosului vãi,
Jur împrejur de sine,
Vedea, cã-n ziua cea dentai,
Cum izvorau lumine;

Cum izvorand îl înconjor
Ca niste mãri, de-a-notul...
El zboarã, gand purtat de dor,
Pîn' piere totul, totul;

Cãci unde-ajunge nu-i hotar,
Nici ochi spre a cunoaste,
Si vremea-ncearcã în zadar
Din goluri a se naste.

Nu e nimic si totusi e
O sete care-l soarbe,
E un adînc asemene
Uitãrii celei oarbe.

- "De greul negrei vecinicii,
Pãrinte, mã dezleagã
Si lãudat pe veci sã fii
Pe-a lumii scarã-ntreagã;

O, cere-mi, Doamne, orice pret,
Dar dã-mi o altã soarte,
Cãci tu izvor esti de vieti
Si dãtãtor de moarte;

Ei doar au stele cu noroc
Si prigoniri de soarte,
Noi nu avem nici timp, nici loc,
Si nu cunoastem moarte.

Din sanul vecinicului ieri
Trãieste azi ce moare,
Un soare de s-ar stinge-n cer
S-aprinde iarãsi soare;

Pãrand pe veci a rãsãri,
Din urmã moartea-l paste,
Cãci toti se nasc spre a muri
Si mor spre a se naste.

Iar tu, Hyperion, rãmai
Oriunde ai apune...
Cere-mi cuvantul meu dentai -
Sã-ti dau întelepciune?

Vrei sã dau glas acelei guri,
Cã dup-a ei cantare
Sã se ia muntii cu pãduri
Si insulele-n mare?

Vrei poate-n faptã sã arãti
Dreptate si tãrie?
Ti-as da pãmîntul în bucãti
Sã-l faci împãrãtie

Îti dau catarg langã catarg,
Ostiri spre a strãbate
Pãmantu-n lung si marea-n larg,
Dar moartea nu se poate...

Si pentru cine vrei sã mori?
Întoarce-te, te-ndreaptã
Spre-acel pãmant rãtãcitor
Si vezi ce te astate

în locul lui menit din cer
Hyperion se-ntoarse
Si, cã si-n ziua cea de ieri,
Lumina si-o revarsã.

Cãci este sara-n asfintit
Si noaptea o sã-nceapã;
Rãsare luna linistit
Si tremurînd din apã.

Si împle cu-ale ei scantei
Cãrãrile din cranguri.
Sub sirul lung de mandri tei
Sedeau doi tineri singuri:

- "O, lasã-mi capul meu pe san,
Iubito, sã se culce
Sub raza ochiului senin
Si negrãit de dulce;

Cu farmecul luminii reci
Gandirile strãbate-mi,
Revarsã liniste de veci
Pe noaptea mea de patimi.

Si de asupra mea rãmîi
Durerea mea de-o curmã,
Cãci esti iubirea mea dentai
Si visul meu din urmã."

Hyperion vedea de sus
Uimirea-n a lor fatã;
Abia un brat pe gat i-a pus
Si ea l-a prins în brate...

Miroase florile-argintii
Si cad, o dulce ploaie,
Pe crestetele-a doi copii
Cu plete lungi, bãlaie.

Ea, îmbãtatã de amor,
Ridicã ochii. Vede
Luceafãrul. Si-ncetisor
Dorintele-i încrede

-’ Cobori în jos, luceafãr bland,
Alunecand pe-o razã,
Pãtrunde-n codru si în gand,
Norocu-mi lumineazã!"

El tremurã ca alte dãti
În codri si pe dealuri,
Cãlãuzînd singurãtãti
De miscãtoare valuri;’

Dar nu mai cade ca-n trecut
In mãri din tot înaltul:
- "Ce-ti pasã tie, chip de lut,
Dac-oi fi eu sau altul?

Trãind în cercul vostru stramt
Norocul vã petrece,
Ci eu în lumea mea mã samt
Nemuritor si rece."

Evening Star.

There was, as in the fairy tales
As ne'er in the time's raid,
There was, of famous royal blood
A most beautiful maid.

She was her parents' only child,
Bright like the sun at noon,
Like the Virgin midst the saints
And among stars the moon.

From the deep shadow of the vaults
Her step now she directs
Toward a window; at its nook
Bright Evening-star expects.

She looks as in the distant seas
He rises, darts his rays
And leads the blackish, loaded ships
On the wet, moving, ways.

To look at him every night
Her soul her instincts spur;
And as he looks at her for weeks
He falls in love with her.

And as on her elbows she leans
Her temple and her whim
She feels in her heart and soul that
She falls in love with him.

And ev'ry night his stormy flames
More stormily renew
When in the shadow of the castle
She shows to his bright view.

And to her room with her slow steps
He bears his steps and aims
Weaving out of his sparkles cold
A toil of shaking flames.

And when she throws upon her bed
Her tired limbs and reposes,
He glides his light along her hands
And her sweet eyelash closes.

And from the mirror on her shape
A beam has spread and burns,
On her big eyes that beat though closed
And on her face that turns.

Her smiles view him; the mirror shows
Him trembling in the nook
For he is plunging in her dream
So that their souls may hook.

She speaks with him in sleep and sighs
While her heart's swelled veins drum:
-"O sweet Lord of my fairy nights,
Why comest thou not? Come!

Descend to me, mild Evening-star
Thou canst glide on a beam,
Enter my dwelling and my mind
And over my life gleam

And he listens and trembles and
Still more for her love craves
And as quick as the lightning he
Plunges into the waves.

The water in that very spot
Moves rolling many rings
And out of the unknown, dark, depth
A superb young man springs.

As on a threshold o'er the sill
His hasty steps he leads,
Holds in his hand a staff with, at
Its top, a crown of reeds!

A young Voivode he seems to be
With soft and golden hair;
A blue shroud binds in a knot on
His naked shoulder fair.

The shade of his face is of wax
And thou canst see throughout -
A handsome dead man with live eyes
That throw their sparkles out.

-"From my sphere hardly I come to
Follow thy call and thee,
The heaven is my father and
My mother is the sea.

So that I could come to thy room
And look at thee from near
With my light reborn from waves my
Fate toward thee I steer.

O come, my treasure wonderful
And thy world leave aside;
For I am Evening-star up from
And thou wouldst be my bride.

In my palace of coral I'll
Take thee for evermore
And the entire world of the sea
Will kneel before thy door."

-"O thou art beautiful as but
In dreams an angel shows,
The way though thou hast oped for me
For me's for ever close.

Thy port and mien and speech are strange
Life thy gleams don't impart,
For I'm alive and thou art dead
And thy eyes chill my heart

Days have past since: but Evening-star
Comes up again and stays
Just as before, spreading o'er her
His clear, translucent rays.

In sleep she would remember him
And, as before, her whole
Wish for the Master of the waves
Is clinching now her soul.

-"Descend to me, mild Evening-star
Thou canst glide on a beam,
Enter my dwelling and my mind
And over my life gleam!"

He hears: and from the dire despair
Of such an woeful weird
He dies, and the heavens revolve
Where he has disappeared.

Soon in the air flames ruddy spread,
The world in their grip hold;
A superb form the spasms of the
Chaotic valleys mold.

On his locks of black hair he bears
His crown a fierce fire frames;
He floats as he really comes
Swimming in the sun's flames.

His black shroud lets develop out
His arms marbly and hale;
He pensively and sadly brings
His face awfully pale.

But his big wonderful eyes' gleam,
Chimerically deep,
Shows two unsatiated spasms
That but into dark peep.

-"From my sphere hardly I come to
Follow thy voice, thy sight;
The bright sun is my father and
My mother is the night..

O come, my treasure wonderful
And thy world leave aside
For I am Evening-star from up
And thou wouldst be my bride.

O come, and upon thy blond hair
Crowns of stars I shall crowd,
And more that all of them, up there,
Thou wild look fair and proud."

-"O thou art beautiful as but
In dreams a demon shows,
The way though hast oped for me
For me's for ever close.

The depths of my breast ache from the
Desire of thy fierce love
My heavy, big eyes also ache
When into them thine shove".

-"But how wouldst thou that I come down?
Know this - for, do I lie? -:
I am immortal, while thou art
One of those that must die!"

-"I hate big words, nor do I know
How to begin my plea;
And although thy discourse is clear
I don't understand thee.

But if thou wantest my flamed love
And that would not be sham,
Come down on this temporal earth,
Be mortal as I am!"

-"I'd lose my immortality
For but one kiss of thine!
Well, I will show thee how much too
For thy fierce love I pine!

Yes, I shall be reborn from sin,
Receive another creed:
From that endlessness to which I
Am tied, I shall be freed!"

And out he went, he went, went out,
Loving a human fay,
He plucked himself off from the sky,
Went for many a day.

Meanwhile,the house boy, Catalin,
Sly, and who often jests
When he"s filling with wine the cups
Of the banqueting guests;

A page that carries step by step
The trail of the Queen's gown,
A wandering bastard, but bold
Like no one in the town;

His little cheek - a peony
That under the sun stews;
Watchful, just like a thief, he sneaks
In Catalina's views.

-"How beautiful she grew" - thinks he -
"A flower just to pluck!
Now, Catalin, but now it is
Thy chance to try thy luck!"

And by the way, hurriedly, he
Corners that human fay:
-"What's with thee, Catalin? Let me
Alone and go thy way!"

-"No! I want thee to stay away
From thoughts that have no fun
. I want to see thee only laugh,
Give me a kiss, just one!"

-"I don't know what it is about
And, believe me, retire!
But for one Evening-star up from
I've kept my strong desire!"

-"If thou dost not know I could show
Thee all about love's balm!
Only, don't give way to thy ire
And listen and be calm.

So as the hunter throws the net
That many birds would harm,
When I'll stretch my left arm to thee,
Enlace me with thy arm.

Under my eyes keep thine and don't
Let them move on their wheels
And if I lift thee by the waist
Thou must lift on thy heels.

When I bend down my face, to hold
Thine up must be thy strife;
So, to each other we could throw
Sweet, eager, looks for life.

And so that thou have about love
A knowledge true and plain,
When I stoop to kiss thee, thou must
Kiss me too and again."

With much bewilderment her mind
The little boy's word fills,
And shyly and nicely now she
Wills not, and now she wills.

And slowly she tells him:- "Since thy
Childhood I've known thy wit,
And as thou art and glib and small
My temper thou wouldst fit.

But Evening-star sprung from the calm
Of the oblivion,
Though, gives horizon limitless
To the sea lone and dun.

And secretly, I close my eyes
For my eyelash tears dim
When the waves of the sea go on
Travelling toward him.

He shines with love unspeakable
So that my pains he'd leach,
But higher and higher soars, so
That his hand I'd ne'er reach.

Sadly thrusts from the worlds which from
My soul his cold ray bar...
I shall love him for ever and
For ever he'll rove far.

Like the unmeasured steppes my days
Are deaf and wild, therefore,
But my nights spread a holy charm
I understand no more!"

-"Thou art a child! Let's go! Through new
Lands our own fate let's frame!
Soon they shall have lost our trace and
Forgot even our name!

We shall be both wise, glad and whole
As my judgement infers
And thou wouldst not long for thy kin
Nor yearn for Evening-stars!"

Then Evening-star went out. His wings
Grow, into heavens dash,
And on his way millenniums
Flee in less than a flash.

Below, a depth of stars; above,
The heaven stars begem, -
He seems an endless lightning that
Is wandering through them.

And from the Chaos' vales he sees
How in an immense ring
Round him, as in the World's first day,
Lights from their sources spring;

How, springing, they hem him like an
Ocean that swimming nears...
He flees carried by his desire
Until he disappears.

For that region is boundless and
Searching regards avoids
And Time strive vainly there to come
To life from the dark voids.

'Tis nought. 'Tis, though, thirst that sips him
And which he cannot shun,
'Tis depth unknown, comparable
To blind oblivion.

-"From that dark, choking, endlessness
Into which I am furled,
Father, undo me, and for e'er
Be praised in the whole world!

Ask anything for this new fate
For with mine I am through:
O hear my prayer, O my Lord, for
Thou gives life and death too.

Take back my endlessness, the fires
That my being devour
And in return give me a chance
To love but for an hour!

I've come from Chaos; I'd return
To that my former nest...
And as I have been brought to life
From rest, I crave for rest!"

-"Hyperion, that comest from
The depths with the world's swarm,
Do not ask signs and miracles
That have no name nor form.

Thou wantest to count among men,
Take their resemblance vain;
But would now the whole mankind die
Men will be born again.

But they are building on the wind
Ideals void and blind;
When human waves run into graves
New waves spring from behind.

Fate's persecutions, lucky stars,
They only are to own;
Here we know neither time nor space,
Death we have never known.

From the eternal yesterday
Drinks what to-day will drain
And if a sun dies on the sky
A sun quickens again.

Risen as for ever, death though
Follows them like a thorn
For all are born only to die
And die to be reborn.

But thou remainest wheresoe'er
Thou wouldst set down or flee.
Thou art of the prime form and an
Eternal prodigy.

Thou wilt now hear the wondrous voice
At whose bewitched singing
Mounts woody get skipping to skies
Into sea Island sinking!

Perhaps thou wilt more: show in deeds
Thy sense of justice, might,
Out of the earth's lumps make an empire
And settle on its height!

I can give thee millions of vessels
And hosts; thou, bear thy breath
O'er all the lands, o'er all the oceans:
I cannot give thee death.

For whom thou wantest then to die?
Just go and see what's worth
All that is waiting there for thee
On that wandering earth!"

His first dominion on the sky
Hyperion restores
And like in his first day, his light
All o'er again he pours.

For it is evening and the night
Her duty never waives.
Now the moon rises quietly
And shaking from the waves,

And upon the paths of the groves
Her sparkles again drone...
Under the row of linden-trees
Two youths sit all alone.

-"O darling, let my blessed ear feel
How thy heart's pulses beat,
Under the ray of thy eyes clear
And unspeakably sweet.

With the charms of their cold light pierce
My thought's faery glades,
Pour an eternal quietness
On my passion's dark shades.

And there, above, remain to stop
Thy woe's violet stream,
For thou art my first source of love
And also my last dream!"

Hyperion beholds how love
Their eyes equally charms:
Scarcely his arm touches her neck,
She takes him in her arms.

The silvery blooms spread their smells
And their soft cascade strokes
The tops of the heads of both youths
With long and golden locks.

And all bewitched by love, she lifts
Her eyes toward the fires
Of the witnessing Evening-star
And trusts him her desires:

-"Descend to me, mild Evening-star
Thou canst glide on a beam,
Enter my forest and my mind
And o'er my good luck gleam!"

As he did it once, into woods,
On hills, his rays he urges,
Guiding throughout so many wilds
The gleaming, moving, surges.

But he falls not as he did once
From his height into swells:
-"What matters thee, clod of dust, if
'Tis me or some one else?

You live in your sphere's narrowness
And luck rules over you -
But in my steady world I feel
Eternal, cold and true.

Pe Lãngã Plopii fara sot

Pe lângă plopii fără soţ
Adesea am trecut;
Mă cunoşteau vecinii toţi -
Tu nu m-ai cunoscut.

La geamul tău ce strălucea
Privii atât de des;
O lume toată-nţelegea -
Tu nu m-ai înteles.

De câte ori am aşteptat
O şoaptă de răspuns!
O zi din viaţă să-mi fi dat,
O zi mi-era de-ajuns;

O oră să fi fost amici,
Să ne iubim cu dor,
S-ascult de glasul gurii mici
O oră, şi să mor.

Dându-mi din ochiul tău senin
O rază dinadins,
În calea timpilor ce vin
O stea s-ar fi aprins;

Ai fi trăit în veci de veci
Şi rânduri de vieţi,
Cu ale tale braţe reci
Înmărmureai măreţ,

Un chip de-a pururi adorat
Cum nu mai au perechi
Acele zâne ce străbat
Din timpurile vechi.

Căci te iubeam cu ochi păgâni
Şi plini de suferinţi,
Ce mi-i lăsară din bătrâni
Părinţii din părinţi.

Azi nici măcar îmi pare rău
Că trec cu mult mai rar,
Că cu tristeţe capul tău
Se-ntoarce în zadar,

Căci azi le semeni tuturor
La umblet şi la port,
Şi te privesc nepăsător
C-un rece ochi de mort.

Tu trebuia să te cuprinzi
De acel farmec sfânt
Şi noaptea candelă s-aprinzi
Iubirii pe pământ.

Along the Row of Poplars Odd…

Along the row of poplars odd
I often used to pass;
Your neighbours knew me, all would nod -
You knew me not, alas.

I watched as often as I could
Your windows, bright and grand;
Whoever saw me, understood
You failed to understand.

How often did I wait and pray
For whispers in response!
Had you but given me one day
A boon just for the nonce!

I wish we had been friends an hour
And swung on passion’s slide:
Your mouth to charm me with its power -
And then I could have died.

If your clear eyes had offered me
A warm bean’s benefit,
On roads that future times shall see
A star you would have lit;

O, then you would have lived for ever
A thousand lives on end,
A sculptor’s marvellous endeavour
In stately marble penned.

Adored and lovely is your face -
As one could but behold
Among the fairies full of grace
Who graced the world of old.

I loved you much, with heathen eyes
In which but suff’ring gathers
Bequeathed by people old and Wise
By fathers and grandfathers.

Today I hardly seem to rue
That seldom I pass by
And listlessly I notice you
And your regret full eye.

For now like anyone you seem
In habits, gait and dance
My eyes have lost their loving gleam
And cast a corpse’s glance.

You should have let yourself to knit
By passions sacred spell;
To love on earth you should have lit
A votive light to dwell

Mai am un Singur Dor

Mai am un singur dor:
In linistea serii
Sã mã lãsati sã mor
La marginea mãrii;
Sã-mi fie somnul lin
Si codrul aproape,
Pe-ntinsele ape
Sã am un cer senin.
Nu-mi trebuie flamuri,
Nu voi sicriu bogat,
Ci-mi împletiti un pat
Din tinere ramuri.

Si nime-n urma mea
Nu-mi plîngã la crestet,
Doar toamna glas sã dea
Frunzisului vested...
Pe cînd cu zgomot cad
Izvoarele-ntr-una,
Alunece luna
Prin vîrfuri lungi de brad.
Pãtrunza talanga
Al serii rece vînt,
Deasupra-mi teiul sfînt
Sã-si scuture creanga.

Cum n-oi mai fi pribeag
De-atunci înainte,
M-or troieni cu drag
Aduceri aminte.
Luceferi, ce rãsar
Din umbra de cetini,
Fiindu-mi prieteni,
O sã-mi zîmbeascã iar.
Va geme de patemi
Al mãrii aspru cînt...
Ci eu voi fi pãmînt
In singurãtate-mi.

The Boon which I Last Crave

The boon which I last crave
Is that at eventide
You dig for me a grave
Not far from the seaside.
So may my sleep be quiet,
The forest ever near,
The waters in no riot.
I want no coffin rich,
No banners of the dead;
Just weave for me a bed
From tender twigs and Switch.

Behind me let no one
Lament my death and weep;
Let withered leaves alone
Chant autumn dirges deep.
While from the rock springs fall
And moan and never stop,
The Moon will glide atop
Of firs, so straight, so tall,
The chill dusk-winds will be
Replete with sheep-bells’ ring,
The holy lime will swing
Its branches over me

As I shall cease at last
To wade in the world’s muddle,
Dear moments of the past
Will to my tombstone huddle.
The stars, my friends that peep
Through shady firs, of yore,
Will smile and evermore
Will Watch and guard my sleep.
Torn by her passions rude,
The sea will sing and cry
While I am dust and lie
In perfect solitude.

Octavian Goga:

Ragãciune

Rătăcitor, cu ochii tulburi,
Cu trupul istovit de cale,
Eu cad neputincios, stăpâne,
În faţa strălucirii tale.
În drum mi se desfac prăpăstii,
Şi-n negură se-mbracă zarea,
Eu în genunchi spre tine caut:
Părinte,-orânduie-mi cărarea!

În pieptul zbuciumat de doruri
Eu simt ispitele cum sapă,
Cum vor să-mi tulbure izvorul
Din care sufletul s-adapă.
Din valul lumii lor mă smulge
Şi cu povaţa ta-nţeleaptă,
În veci spre cei rămaşi în urmă,
Tu, Doamne, văzul meu îndreapta.
Dezleagă minţii mele taina
Şi legea farmecelor firii,
Sădeşte-n braţul meu de-a pururi
Tăria urii şi-a iubirii.
Dă-mi cântecul şi dă-mi lumina
Şi zvonul firii-ndrăgostite,
Dă-i raza soarelui de vară
Pleoapei mele ostenite.

Alungă patimile mele,
Pe veci strigarea lor o frânge,
Şi de durerea altor inimi
Învaţă-mă pe mine-a plânge.
Nu rostul meu, de-a pururi pradă
Ursitei maştere şi rele,
Ci jalea unei lumi, părinte,
Să plângă-n lacrimile mele.
Dă-mi tot amarul, toată truda
Atâtor doruri fără leacuri,
Dă-mi viforul în care urlă
Şi gem robiile de veacuri.
De mult gem umiliţii-n umbră,
Cu umeri gârbovi de povară...
Durerea lor înfricosata
În inimă tu mi-o coboară.

În suflet seamănă-mi furtună,
Să-l simt în matca-i cum se zbate,
Cum tot amarul se revarsă
Pe strunele înfiorate;
Şi cum sub bolta lui aprinsă,
În smalţ de fulgere albastre,
Încheaga-şi glasul de aramă:
Cântarea pătimirii noastre.

 Prayer

A wanderer with haggard face,
With body travel-bent and gory,
All helpless I fall down, Creator,
Before Thy incandescent glory.
Wide-mouthed abysses cross my pathroad,
Beclouded is the sky and grey;

On bended knees I look at Thee;
Almighty Father, light my way!
I feel how in my yearning soul
Temptations congregate and sap
And try to fill with mud the fountain
From wwhich my being draws its sap.
Wrest me away from their embraces
And with Thy counsel wise and kind
Direct my sight for evermore
Towards all those who lag behind.

Unravel to my mind the secret
Of laws that govern Nature's charms,
Implant the never-failing strength
Of hate and love into my arms.
Give me the songs, the light, the whispers
Of love-sick ocean, earth and sky,
And lend the rays of summer sunshine
To my long dimmed and weary eye.

Extinguish my unbridled passions,
For ever silence their behests,
Teach me to weep when I discover
The sorrowing of other breasts;
And let my tears express, dear Father,
Not the dismay which Fate unkind
Has chosen to torment my lifespan,
But the deep sorrow of mankind.

Give me the brunt, the gall, the str,
The thirst that nobody assuages,
Give me the whirlwinds by which thraldom
Has been prootesting sore for ages,
Unknown, despised, the Earth's down-trodden
Must cease to feed the juggernaut...
Lodge in my heart, Heavenly Father,
The tortures of their dreadful lot.
Sow in my soul the wind that I
May feel how in its womb it rages,
How bitterness is brimming over
On poetry's impassioned pages;
How under soul's estival archway,
In lightning-flash and thunder-peal,
A brazen voice comes into being
To sing the song of our ordeal.

Noi

La noi sunt codri verzi de brad
Şi câmpuri de mătasă;
La noi atâţia fluturi sunt,
Şi-atâta jale-n casă.
Privighetori din alte ţări
Vin doina să ne-asculte;
La noi sunt cântece şi flori
Şi lacrimi multe, multe...

Pe boltă, sus, e mai aprins,
La noi, bătrânul soare,
De când pe plaiurile noastre
Nu pentru noi răsare...
La noi de jale povestesc
A codrilor desişuri,
Şi jale duce Murăşul,
Şi duc tustrele Crişuri.

La noi nevestele plângând
Sporesc pe fus fuiorul,
Şi-mbrăţişându-şi jalea plâng
Şi tata, şi feciorul.
Sub cerul nostru-nduioşat
E mai domoală hora,
Căci cântecele noastre plâng
În ochii tuturora.

Şi fluturii sunt mai sfioşi
Când zboară-n zări albastre,
Doar roua de pe trandafiri
E lacrimi de-ale noastre.
Iar codrii ce-nfrăţiţi cu noi
Îşi înfioara sânul
Spun că din lacrimi e-mpletit
Şi Oltul, biet, bătrânul...

Avem un vis neîmplinit,
Copil al suferinţii,
De jalea lui ne-am răposat
Şi moşii, şi părinţii...
Din vremi uitate, de demult,
Gemând de grele patimi,
Deşertăciunea unui vis
Noi o stropim cu lacrimi...

Oltul

Mult iscusita vremii slovă
Nu spune clipa milostivă
Ce ne-a-nfrăţit pe veci necazul
Şi veselia deopotrivă...
Mărită fie dimineaţa
Ce-a săvârşit a noastră nuntă,
Bătrâne Olt! - cu buza arsă
Îţi sărutăm unda căruntă.

În cetăţuia ta de apă
Dorm cântecele noastre toate
Şi fierbe tăinuita jale
A visurilor sfărâmate.
Tu împletesti în curcubeie
Comoara lacrimilor noastre,
Şi cel mai scump nisip tu-l duci
În vadul Dunării albastre.

La sânul tău vin, în amurguri,
Sfioase, fetele fecioare,
Şi dimineaţa vin neveste
Cu şorţul prins în cingătoare -
Şi vin păstori cu gluga albă,
Din fluier povestindu-şi dorul -
Şi câte cântece şi lacrimi
Nu duce valul, călătorul...

Drumeţ, bătut de gânduri multe,
Ne laşi atât de greu pe noi,
Îmbratisându-ne câmpia,
Te uiţi adesea înapoi.
Aşa domol te poartă firea,
Căci duce unda-ţi gânditoare:
Durerea unui neam ce-aşteaptă
De mult o dreaptă sărbătoare.

Demult, în vremi mai mari la suflet,
Erai şi tu haiduc, moşnege,
Când domni vicleni jurau pe spadă
Să sfarme sfânta noastră lege;
Tu, frate plânsetelor noastre
Şi răzvrătirii noastre frate,
Urlai tăriilor amarul
Mâniei tale-nfricoşate.

Cum tresăreau încremenite,
În jocurile lor buiestre,
Oştiri cu coifuri de aramă
Şi roibi cu aur pe căpestre
Când la strigarea ta de tată
Grăbeau din codri la poiene,
Strângând săcuri a subţioară,
Feciorii mândrei Cosânzene.

Zdrobită-n praf, murea arama,
Şi codrul chiotea, viteazul;
Iar tu, frăţine, mare meşter,
Biruitor frângeai zăgazul
Şi,-mbujorându-te la faţă,
Treceai prin văile afunde,
Încovoindu-ţi îndaratnic

Maretul tău grumaz de unde.
Slăvite fărmituri a vremii,
De mult v-am îngropat văleatul...
Neputincios pari şi tu astăzi -
Te-a-ncins cu lanţuri împaratul.
Ca unda ta strivită, gemem
Şi noi, tovarăşii tăi buni,
Dar de ne-om prăpădi cu toţii

Tu, Oltule, să ne răzbuni!
Să verşi păgân potop de apă
Pe şesul holdelor de aur;
Să piară glia care poartă
Înstrăinatul nost' tezaur;
Ţărâna trupurilor noastre
S-o scurmi de unde ne-ngropară
Şi să-ţi aduni apele toate -
Să ne mutăm în altă ţară

The Olt

Time's scrolls of wisely writtten lore
Tell not of that blest, hallowed day
Which of the same joys made us sharers
And to the same distress a prey.
Exhalted ever be the morning
When we were wedded, ancient Olt!
With thirsty, parched lips we are kissing
Your waves, old as the heavenly vault!

Our song and poetry sleeps treasured
In your majestic wat'ry hall,
And the despair of crumbled strivings
Boils over in the dungeoned thrall.
The rainbow is made even richer
For each of your drops is a tear,
And to the Danube blue you carry
Fine grains of sand to us so dear.

'Tis to your banks that in the twilight
Our modest, bashful maidens haste,
Or in the morning busy housewives
With aprons tucked into their waist,
Or shepherds clad in snow-white mantles
To play on pipes love-sick dirge -
How many songs, how many tears
Bears off your ever wand'ring surge!

This hard for you, thought-laden traveller,
To leave us, sorrowful in mind;
So while you flow, you hug the cornfields
And often cast a look behind.
How tenderly is Nature guiding
Your thoughtful waves, which do convey
All the afflictions of a people
Long waiting for its holiday!

Of yore, in times more brave and gen'rous,
You, old man, were an outlaw too,
When cunning kings swore on their broadswords
Our very being to undo;
A brother in our bitter sorrows,
And a staunch friend in our revolts,
You hurled unto the skies the curses
Of your terrible fury, Olt!

How would then hosts with copper helmets
And fiery steeds with golden bridle
Start up and leave their dazzling tourneys,
How not one man would stand by idle
At your parental call! How would
Your daring sons, with guns and spades,
And pitchforks, hoes and clubs, return
From darkling woods to sunlit glades!

The copper died, crushed in the dust,
And long hallooed the forests bold,
When you, my brother, broke the dam
Down to its base, and sped and rolled
With flushing cheeks, among the hillsides,
To flood the valleys deep and black,
And bent, as resolute as ever,
Your never-bending wat'ry back!

Long, long ago I buried deep
These short-lived boons of Time; for you
Seem to be now as frail as they -
The emperor has chained you too,
And we, your faithful friends and comrades,
Endure and groan like your crushed wave;
But if we all are doomed to perish,
You must avenge us, river brave!

Pour out a sea of hellish torrents
Over the fields of golden corn;
Let the glebe die that carries in it
The wealth of which we are forlorn!
Dig out the ashes of our bodies
Wherever they lie buried, and,
When you have gathered all your waters,
We'll move out to some other land!

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe:

Der Erlkönig

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm
.
"Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?" —
"Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif?" —
"Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif."

"Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir;
Manch' bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand."

"Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?" —
"Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind;
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind." —

"Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehen?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein." —

"Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?" —
"Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau. —"

"Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt." —
"Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an!
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!" —

Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Müh' und Not;
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.

The Erlking

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.

"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?"
"Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?"
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."

"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?"
"Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."

"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?"
"My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight."

"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
"My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."

The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,--
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

Radu Gyr:

Stindarde

Nu dor spărturi în piept şi lăncii rupte
Nici luptele pierdute prin viroage
Cum dor acele braţe slăbănoage
Când nu mai vor sau nu-ndrăznesc să lupte.
Cât timp miresme inima extrage
Ce-ţi pasă că o rană dedesupt e?
Când fluturi sus stindarde ne-ntrerupte
Surâzi că-n praf zac spadele oloage

Şi cioburi sunt vremelnice şi plângeri
Şi-ngenunchiezi de-o clipă lâng-abise.
Învins nu eşti dacă suspini ori plângi
Nici dac-o zi par zările închise.
În bătălii, supremele înfrângeri
Sunt numai renunţările la vise.

Ridicã-te Gheorghe, Ridicã-te Ioane

Ridicã-te, Gheorghe, ridicã-te, Ioane!
Nu pentru-o lopatã de rumenã pâine,
nu pentru pãtule, nu pentru pogoane,
ci pentru vãzduhul tãu liber de mâine,
ridicã-te, Gheorghe, ridicã-te, Ioane!

Pentru sângele neamului tãu curs prin santuri,
pentru cântecul tu tintuit în piroane,
pentru lacrima soarelui tãu pus în lanturi,
ridicã-te, Gheorghe, ridicã-te, Ioane!

Nu pentru mânia scrâsnitã-n mãsele,
ci ca sã aduni chiuind pe tãpsane
o claie de zãri si-o cãciulã de stele,
ridicã-te, Gheorghe, ridicã-te, Ioane!

Asa, ca sã bei libertatea din ciuturi
si-n ea sã te-afunzi ca un cer în bulboane
si zarzãrii ei peste tine sã-i scuturi,
ridicã-te, Gheorghe, ridicã-te, Ioane.

Si ca sã pui tot sãrutul fierbinte
pe praguri, pe prispe, pe usi, pe icoane,
pe toate ce slobode-ti ies înainte,
ridicã-te, Gheorghe, ridicã-te, Ioane!

Ridicã-te, Gheorghe, pe lanturi, pe funii!
Ridicã-te, Ioane, pe sfinte ciolane!
Si sus, spre lumina din urmã-a furtunii,
ridicã-te, Gheorghe, ridicã-te, Ioane.

Arise George, Arise John

Arise George, Arise John.!
Not for a piece of rubicund bread,
nor for acres, or beds,
but for your free sky of tomorrow.
Arise George, arise John!

For the blood your ancestors spilled in ditches,
for your songs, stocked in nails
from the tearrs that flow from your chained dreams,
Arise George, arise John!

Nor for the anger that grinds through your teeth,
but so that you can collect, while shouting on slopes,
a stack of horizons and a hat full of stars,
Arise George, arise John.!

So you can drink your freedom from a bucket
and sink into it like a whirling sky
with apricot blossoms to shake over you
Arise George, arise John!

To kiss with your hot lips
the threshold, the porch, the doors, the icons
and everything else that freely stands before you
Arise George, arise John!

Arise George, on your chains and rope
Arise John, on your bones!
Stand up, towards the last light of the storm.
Arise George, arise John!

Rondelul Aripilor Frinte

Mereu aripile se frang,
mereu tãrana asta sperã .
Mereu pe trista noastrã sferã
obrajii rîd si ochii plang.

Heruvi de-o zi, crescuti  in serã ,
Ne prãbusim in cate-un crang.
Mereu aripile se frang,
Mereu tãrana asta sperã .

Asa venim din erã -n erã ,
ba spanzurati de-un zbor nãtang,
ba sfisiati de vreo himerã …
Mereu tãrana asta sperã ,
Mereu aripile se frang.

Cantec de Luptã

Nu dor nici luptele pirdute,
nici rãnile din piept nu dor,
cum dor acele brate slute
care sa lupte nu mai vor.

Cât timp in piept inima-ti cântã
ce-nseamnã-n luptã-un brat rãpus?
Ce-ti pasã-n praf o spadã frântã
când te ridici c-un steag mai sus?

Infrânt nu esti atunci când sângeri,
si nici când ochii-n lacrimi ti-s.
Adevãratele infrângeri
sunt renuntãrile la vis.

Battle Song  
                                           
It doesn’t hurt, neither the lost battles
nor the chest wounds, they don’t hurt
Not like these ugly arms
that no longer want to fight.
.
When your heart is still singing
What matters an arm broken in battle?
Why do you care in vain for a broken sword
when you climb higher with each flag?
.
You lose not when you bleed
nor when your eyes are covered in tears.
The worst kind of defeat
is surrendering your dreams.

Butucii

Pe scocuri care vajaie si tunã
s-au nãpustit cu muget de bouri
si-acum, în vaiet lung si trosnituri,
se prãvãlesc pe-un fund de vãgãunã.

În ceafã cu  tapine si securi,
gem despuiati de-o ultimã furtunã…
O, cum fosneaù sub viscole de lunã,
pe creste sus, pe cand erau pãduri.

Dar parcã tot mai fluierã merloii,
sau curge vantu-n pieptul lor flãmand
de ropotele grindinii si ploii…

Si cum pornese spre joagãr, rand pe rand,
butucii, goi de coajã, par strigoii
pãdurilor care-au murit cantand.

Rudyard Kipling:

If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream and not make dreams your master;
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And, which is more, you'll be a Man, my son!

Nicolae Labis:

Inceputul
Bãtãile versului am prins a deprinde
Nu din cãrti, ci din horã, din dant,
Rimele, din bocete si colinde,
Din doinele seara cantate pe sant.

M-am nãscut iarna, la sfantul Andrei,
Cand vantu-n amurg suiera prin ogradã.
Muntii ardeau in polei si lumini,
Lupii spulberau scantei din zãpadã

Am strans sãnãtate din cremenea neagrã,
Din vana de apã, tasnind încordat,
Si bãtranii din sat cand murirã,
Toate iubirile mostenire mi-au dat.

Eu mã scãldam prin pîraie cu ochii deschisi,
Era o apã de clestar si de stele —
Pesti alburii, palpaind ca-ntr-un vis,
Lunecau langã genele mele.

Ori prin muntii cu iarba-ntomnatã pe creastã
Ascultam taraitul de greier bolnav;
Gonind pe-un cer de-ntunecare vastã,
Nouri scãmosi în spinãri purtau frigul jilav.

Însemnam cu uimire pe-un petic de foaie
Cum scapãrã ceru-n bãltoace întors,
Cum, dupã muntii ursuzi, dupã ploaie,
Fuioarele de aburi s-au tors.

Pe atunci te-nvãtam, tara mea, te-nvãtam
Cu copaci si cu cer, cu pãlmas si cu vitã,
Cu luna lividã sticlind în spãrtura de geam
Si cu gura uscatã de foame ca piatra trãsnitã.

Au vuit arãmurile in clopotnitã, sus,
Si ca un vant trecu pe sat mobilizarea.
Primenit în haine noi, tata la rãzboi s-a dus
Si l-a-nghitit albã si vestedã zarea.

Cu ochii atintiti pe geamul spart,
Mama rãmase mutã, ca de fier;
Eu ma uitam in laturi, iar sor u-mea cea mica
Radea catre papusa-ntr-un ungher.

Fetele mari din sat, cu ochiul stans,
Jeleau dupã flãcãii dusi departe
Si mã rugau, inabusite-n plans,
Sã le-nsailez spre dansii cate-o carte.

Scriam acolo eu de frunze verzi,
De jale si de cate si mai cate,
Si dorul cãtre tata cu dorul fetelor
Se împletea in stihuri mohorate.

Bãtãile versului am prins a deprinde
Nu din carti, ci la horã, din dant.
Rimele, din bocete si colinde,
Din doinele seara cantate pe sant.

Din zbuciumul de mamã-nãbusit,
Si-al fetelor care uitau ce-i hora,
Pâtrunse trist de dorul acelora
Ce din rãzboaie nu au mai venit.

Fior

Poate-am visat ceva rău şi-am uitat,
Poate-i doar pentru că vişinii s-au înflorat,
Poate-i doar vântul ce limpede sună,
Ori pentru că au muşcat astă noapte din lună
Vârcolacii, ori stele prea multe pe faţă
Mi-au picurat o otravă de gheaţă,
Ori poate e dimineaţă.

Cine eşti, ori ce eşti,
Abur ori duh străveziu de poveşti,
Care-ai pătruns şi îmi macini mereu
Trupul şi sufletul meu?

Privesc în oglindă - acelaşi mi-i chipul
Şi buzele groase tăiate ca-n lemn.
Pe pavăza frunţii văd bine că nimeni
N-a scris, înca nu, nici un semn.

Dar vorbele-mi murmură: sună-ne,-ncearcă-ne,
Sufletu-şi pâlpâie albe chemări,
Ochii îmi ard rotunjiţi peste cearcăne,
Inima-şi bate ecoul de zări.

Cine eşti, ori ce eşti,
Abur ori duh coborât din poveşti,
Undă prelinsă să mă învenine,
Stea fulgerată în mine.

Moartea Caprioarei

Seceta a ucis orice boare de vant.
Soarele s-a topit si a curs pe pãmânt.
A rãmas cerul fierbinte si gol.
Ciuturile scot din fantana namol.
Peste paduri tot mai des focuri, focuri,
Danseaza salbatice, satanice jocuri.
Mã iau dupa tata la deal printre tarsuri,
Si brazii mã zgarie, rai si uscati.
Pornim amandoi vanatoarea de capre,
Vanatoarea foametei în muntii Carpati.
Setea mã naruie. Fierbe pe piatra
Firul de apa prelins din cismea.
Tampla apasa pe umar. Pasesc ca pe-o alta
Planeta, imensa si grea.
Asteptam intr-un loc unde inca mai suna,
Din strunele undelor line, izvoarele.
Când va scapata soarele, când va licari luna,
Aici vor veni sã s-adape
Una cate una caprioarele.
Spun tatii ca mi-i sete si-mi face semn sã tac.
Ametitoare apa, ce limpede te clatini!
Mã simt legat prin sete de vietatea care va muri
La ceas oprit de lege si de datini.
Cu fosnet vestejit rasufla valea.
Ce-ngrozitoare inserare pluteste-n univers!
Pe zare curge sange si pieptul mi-i rosu, de parca
Mainile pline de sange pe piept mi le-am sters.
Ca pe-un altar ard ferigi cu flacari vinetii,
Si stelele uimite clipira printre ele.
Vai, cum as vrea sã nu mai vii, sã nu mai vii,
Frumoasa jertfa a padurii mele!
Ea s-arata saltand si se opri
Privind în jur c-un fel de teama,
Si narile-i subtiri infiorara apa
Cu cercuri lunecoase de arama.
Sticlea în ochii-i umezi ceva nelamurit,
Stiam ca va muri si c-o s-o doara.
Mi se parea ca retraiesc un mit
Cu fata prefacuta-n caprioara.
De sus, lumina palida, lunara,
Cernea pe blana-i calda flori calde de cires.
Vai cum doream ca pentru-intaia oara
Bataia pustii tatii sã dea gres!
Dar vaile vuira. Cazuta în genunchi,
Ea ridicase capul, il clatina spre stele,
Il pravali apoi, starnind pe apa
Fugare roiuri negre de margele.
O pasare albastra zvacnise dintre ramuri,
Si viata caprioarei spre zarile tarzii
Zburase lin, cu tipat, ca pasarile toamna
Când lasa cuiburi sure si pustii.
Impleticit m-am dus si i-am inchis
Ochii umbrosi, trist strajuiti de coarne,
Si-am tresarit tacut si alb când tata
Mi-a suierat cu bucurie: - Avem carne!
Spun tatii ca mi-i sete si-mi face semn sã beau.
Ametitoare apa, ce-ntunecat te clatini!
Mã simt legat prin sete de vietatea care a murit
La ceas oprit de lege si de datini...
Dar legea ni-i desarta si straina
Când viata-n noi cu greu se mai anina,
Iar datina si mila sunt desarte,
Când soru-mea-i flamanda, bolnava si pe moarte.
Pe-o nara pusca tatii scoate fum.
Vai, fãrã vant alearga frunzarele duium!
Inalta tata foc infricosat.
Vai, cat de mult padurea s-a schimbat!
Din ierburi prind în maini fãrã sã stiu
Un clopotel cu clinchet argintiu...
De pe frigare tata scoate-n unghii
Inima caprioarei si rarunchii.
Ce-i inima? Mi-i foame! Vreau sã traiesc si-as vrea ....
Tu, iarta-mã, fecioara - tu, caprioara mea!
Mi-i somn. Ce nalt îi focul! Si codrul, ce adânc!
Plang. Ce gandeste tata? Mananc si plang. Mananc!

The Death of the Deer

The drought has stifled every feather of wind,
The sun melted down on the earth, left behind
An empty, exhausted, blistering sky
The buckets come up from the fountains all dry.
More and more over woods fires, fires,
Dance above savage, demoniac pyres.
I follow my father through the bushes uphill,
The fir-trees scrape me, withered up and evil,
Together, we start the deer hunting quest,
The hunting of hunger in the Carpathian forest.
Thirst ruins me. The thin string of water
Drip, drop, from the spout is sizzling on stone.
My temple is throbbing. I walk on another
Enormous and heavy, strange planet alone.
We wait in a place where, from strings of calm waves,
The streams still resound.
When the sun will be set, when the moon will rise, round,
One by one, in a line, up here,
they will come to drink, the deer.
I say “Father, I`m thirsty!” he hushes me at once,
Bemusing water, how clearly you glow!
I`m tied by thirst to the soul meant to die
At an hour forbidden by custom and by law.
The valley rustles with a withered hiss,
Crosswise the sky, a dire twilight lit
the clouds, and far, above the cliff,
blood drips. My chest is red, as if
I wiped my hands of blood on it.
With bluish flames through ferns, as in a dream,
Astounded stars begin to gleam
Sacrifice of my woods, oh, beautiful prey,
How I wish you did not come, how I pray!
She bounces lightly then she stops
And looks with caution through the grass
Her slender nostrils stirred the water
In circles shimmering like brass.
A hazy fear glared deep inside her eyes
I knew that she would suffer;
I knew that she would die,
As she stood there, still, she was the sheer
Myth of the maid embodied in a deer.
White cherry flowers, high above her
The moon was sifting on her fur.
Oh, how I wish, oh, how I pray,
My father`s gun to miss its prey!
And custom, law and pity are quickly gone
The valleys roared. Knelt, in the stream,
She raised her head, as in a dream
She watched the sky, the moon, the stars
Then fell and water gleamed with scars.
A blue bird rushed, in a tree, unknown
The deer`s life has softly flown,
Crying like birds when they depart
And their fall migrations start.
I went to close her eyes, below
So sadly laid her antlers shadow
I startled livid when, suddenly, offbeat,
My father screeched with joy: “Meat, we have meat!
I say “Father, I`m thirsty!” he nods that I may drink.
Bemusing water, how sullenly you glow!
I feel tied by thirst to the soul that died
At an hour forbidden by custom and by law…
But our laws are useless and dead
And custom, law and pity are quickly gone
When sis` is sick and hungry at home.
The smokes comes out of my father`s gun
The leafage in flocks starts to run!
My father kindles a terrible fire
The wood seems now darker and higher!
I pick up from the grass, as in a dream,
A tiny bell with silver gleam,
My father, from the spit rends with his nails
The deer`s heart and her entrails.
You, heart? I`m hungry! I want to live, I wish, although…
Forgive me deer, forgive me virgin-doe!
I`m tired. How tall is now the fire! The woods, how deep!
I cry. What does my father think? I eat and cry. I eat!

Albatrosul

Cand dintre pomi spre mare se rãsucise vantul
Si-n catifeaua umbrei nisipul amortea,
L-a scos un val afarã cu grijã asezandu-l
Pe-un cimitir de scoici ce strãlucea.
La marginea vietii clocotitoare-a mãrii
Sta nefiresc de teapan, trufas, însã rãpus.
Priveste încã parcã talazurile zãrii
Cu gatul gales îndoit în sus.

Murdare si sãrate-s aripile-i deschise,
Furtuna ce-l izbise îi canta-un surd prohod,
Lucesc multicolore în juru-i scoici ucise
Al cãror miez cãldurile îl rod.

De valuri aruncate pe tãrmul sec si tare
Murirã fãrã luptã sclipind acum bogat.
Le tulburã lumina lor albã, orbitoare,
Aripa lui cu mal întunecat.

Deasupra tipã-n aer dansand in salturi bruste,
Sfidand nemãrginirea, un tanãr pescãrus.
Rãzboinicul furtunii zvarlit între moluste
Rãsfrange-n ochiu-i stins un nou urcus.

Când se-nteteste briza aripa-i se-nfioarã
Si, renviat o clipã de-un nevãzut îndemn,
Îti pare cã zbura-va din nou, ultima oarã,
Spre-un cimitir mai sobru si mai demn.

David Herbert Lawrence:

Green

The dawn was apple-green,
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
The moon was a golden petal between.

She opened her eyes, and green
They shone, clear like flowers undone,
For the first time, now for the first time seen.

John Masefield:

The Wanderer

ALL day they loitered by the resting ships,
Telling their beauties over, taking stock;
At night the verdict left my messmate's lips,
"The Wanderer is the finest ship in dock."

I had not seen her, but a friend, since drowned,
Drew her, with painted ports, low, lovely, lean,
Saying, "The Wanderer, clipper, outward bound,
The loveliest ship my eyes have ever seen--

"Perhaps to-morrow you will see her sail.
She sails at sunrise": but the morrow showed
No Wanderer setting forth for me to hail;
Far down the stream men pointed where she rode,

Rode the great trackway to the sea, dim, dim,
Already gone before the stars were gone.
I saw her at the sea-line's smoky rim
Grow swiftly vaguer as they towed her on.

Soon even her masts were hidden in the haze
Beyond the city; she was on her course
To trample billows for a hundred days;
That afternoon the northerner gathered force,

Blowing a small snow from a point of east.
"Oh, fair for her," we said, "to take her south."
And in our spirits, as the wind increased,
We saw her there, beyond the river mouth,

Setting her side-lights in the wildering dark,
To glint upon mad water, while the gale
Roared like a battle, snapping like a shark,
And drunken seamen struggled with the sail.

While with sick hearts her mates put out of mind
Their little children, left astern, ashore,
And the gale's gathering made the darkness' blind,
Water and air one intermingled roar.

Then we forgot her, for the fiddlers played,
Dancing and singing held our merry crew;
The old ship moaned a little as she swayed.
It blew all night, oh, bitter hard it blew!

So that at midnight I was called on deck
To keep an anchor-watch: I heard the sea
Roar past in white procession filled with wreck;
Intense bright stars burned frosty over me,

And the Greek brig beside us dipped and dipped,
White to the muzzle like a half-tide rock,
Drowned to the mainmast with the seas she shipped;
Her cable-swivels clanged at every shock.

And like a never-dying force, the wind
Roared till we shouted with it, roared until
Its vast virality of wrath was thinned,
Had beat its fury breathless and was still.

By dawn the gale had dwindled into flaw,
A glorious morning followed: with my friend
I climbed the fo'c's'le-head to see; we saw
The waters hurrying shoreward without end.

Haze blotted out the river's lowest reach;
Out of the gloom the steamers, passing by,
Called with their sirens, hooting their sea-speech;
Out of the dimness others made reply.

And as we watched, there came a rush of feet
Charging the fo'c's'le till the hatchway shook.
Men all about us thrust their way, or beat,
Crying, "Wanderer! Down the river! Look!"

I looked with them towards the dimness; there
Gleamed like a spirit striding out of night,
A full-rigged ship unutterably fair,
Her masts like trees in winter, frosty-bright.

Foam trembled at her bows like wisps of wool;
She trembled as she towed. I had not dreamed
That work of man could be so beautiful,
In its own presence and in what it seemed.

"So, she is putting back again," I said.
"How white with frost her yards are on the fore."
One of the men about me answer made,
"That is not frost, but all her sails are tore,

"Torn into tatters, youngster, in the gale;
Her best foul-weather suit gone." It was true,
Her masts were white with rags of tattered sail
Many as gannets when the fish are due.

Beauty in desolation was her pride,
Her crowned array a glory that had been;
She faltered tow'rds us like a swan that died,
But altogether ruined she was still a queen.

"Put back with all her sails gone," went the word;
Then, from her signals flying, rumor ran,
"The sea that stove her boats in killed her third;
She has been gutted and has lost a man."

So, as though stepping to a funeral march,
She passed defeated homewards whence she came,
Ragged with tattered canvas white as starch,
A wild bird that misfortune had made tame.

She was refitted soon: another took
The dead man's office; then the singers hove
Her capstan till the snapping hawsers shook;
Out, with a bubble at her bows, she drove.

Again they towed her seawards, and again
We, watching, praised her beauty, praised her trim,
Saw her fair house-flag flutter at the main,
And slowly saunter seawards, dwindling dim;

And wished her well, and wondered, as she died,
How, when her canvas had been sheeted home,
Her quivering length would sweep into her stride,
Making the greenness milky with her foam.

But when we rose next morning, we discerned
Her beauty once again a shattered thing;
Towing to dock the Wanderer returned,
A wounded sea-bird with a broken wing.

 A spar was gone, her rigging's disarray
Told of a worse disaster than the last;
Like draggled hair dishevelled hung the stay,
Drooping and beating on the broken mast.

Half-mast upon her flagstaff hung her flag;
Word went among us how the broken spar
Had gored her captain like an angry stag,
And killed her mate a half-day from the bar.

She passed to dock along the top of flood.
An old man near me shook his head and swore:
"Like a bad woman, she has tasted blood--
There'll be no trusting in her any more."

We thought it truth, and when we saw her there
Lying in dock, beyond, across the stream,
We would forget that we had called her fair,
We thought her murderess and the past a dream.

And when she sailed again, we watched in awe,
Wondering what bloody act her beauty planned,
What evil lurked behind the thing we saw,
What strength there was that thus annulled man's hand,

How next its triumph would compel man's will
Into compliance with external fate,
How next the powers would use her to work ill
On suffering men; we had not long to wait.

For soon the outcry of derision rose,
"Here comes the Wanderer!" the expected cry.
Guessing the cause, our mockings joined with those
Yelled from the shipping as they towed her by.

She passed us close, her seamen paid no heed
To what was called: they stood, a sullen group,
Smoking and spitting, careless of her need,
Mocking the orders given from the poop.

Her mates and boys were working her; we stared.
What was the reason of this strange return,
This third annulling of the thing prepared?
No outward evil could our eyes discern.

Only like one who having formed a plan
Beyond the pitch of common minds, she sailed,
Mocked and deserted by the common man,
Made half divine to me for having failed.

We learned the reason soon: below the town
A stay had parted like a snapping reed,
"Warning," the men thought, "not to take her down."
They took the omen, they would not proceed.

Days passed before another crew would sign.
The Wanderer lay in dock alone, unmanned,
Feared as a thing possessed by powers malign,
Bound under curses not to leave the land.

But under passing Time fear passes too;
That terror passed, the sailors' hearts grew bold.
We learned in time that she had found a crew
And was bound out southwards as of old.

And in contempt we thought, "A little while
Will bring her back again, dismantled, spoiled.
It is herself; she cannot change her style;
She has the habit now of being foiled."

So when a ship appeared among the haze,
We thought, "The Wanderer back again"; but no,
No Wanderer showed for many, many days,
Her passing lights made other waters glow.

But we would oft think and talk of her,
Tell newer hands her story, wondering, then,
Upon what ocean she was Wanderer,
Bound to the cities built by foreign men.

And one by one our little conclave thinned,
Passed into ships and sailed and so away,
To drown in some great roaring of the wind,
Wanderers themselves, unhappy fortune's prey.

And Time went by me making memory dim,
Yet still I wondered if the Wanderer fared
Still pointing to the unreached ocean's rim,
Brightening the water where her breast was bared.

And much in ports abroad I eyed the ships,
Hoping to see her well-remembered form
Come with a curl of bubbles at her lips
Bright to her berth, the sovereign of the storm.

I never did, and many years went by,
Then, near a Southern port, one Christmas Eve,
I watched a gale go roaring through the sky,
Making the cauldrons of clouds upheave.

Then the wrack tattered and the stars appeared,
Millions of stars that seemed to speak in fire;
A byre cock cried aloud that morning neared,
The swinging wind-vane flashed upon the spire.

And soon men looked upon a glittering earth,
Intensely sparkling like a world new-born;
Only to look was spiritual birth,
So bright the raindrops ran along the thorn

So bright they were, that one could almost pass
Beyond their twinkling to the source, and know
The glory pushing in the blade of grass,
That hidden soul which makes the flowers grow.

That soul was there apparent, not revealed,
Unearthly meanings covered every tree,
That wet grass grew in an immortal field,
Those waters fed some never-wrinkled sea.

The scarlet berries in the hedge stood out
Like revelations but the tongue unknown;
Even in the brooks a joy was quick: the trout
Rushed in a dumbness dumb to me alone.

All of the valley was loud with brooks;
I walked the morning, breasting up the fells,
Taking again lost childhood from the rooks,
Whose cawing came above the Christmas bells.

I had not walked that glittering world before,
But up the hill a prompting came to me,
"This line of upland runs along the shore:
Beyond the hedgerow I shall see the sea."

And on the instant from beyond away
The long familiar sound, a ship's bell, broke
The hush below me in the unseen bay.
Old memories came, that inner prompting spoke.

And bright above the hedge a seagull's wings
Flashed and were steady upon empty air.
"A Power unseen," I cried, "prepares these things;
Those are her bells, the Wanderer is there."

So, hurrying to the hedge and looking down,
I saw a mighty bay's wind-crinkled blue
Ruffling the image of a tranquill town,
With lapsing waters glimmering as they grew.

And near me in the road the shipping swung,
So stately and so still in such a great peace
That like to drooping crests their colors hung,
Only their shadows trembled without cease.

I did but glance upon these anchored ships
Even as my thought had told, I saw her plain;
Tense, like a supple athlete with lean hips,
Swiftness at pause, the Wanderer come again--

Come as of old a queen, untouched by Time,
Resting the beauty that no seas could tire,
Sparkling, as though the midnight's rain were rime,
Like a man's thought transfigured into fire,

And as I looked, one of her men began
To sing some simple tune of Christmas day;
Among her crew the song spread, man to man,
Until the singing rang across the bay;

And soon in other anchored ships the men
Joined in the singing with clear throats, until
The farm-boy heard it up the windy glen,
Above the noise of sheep-bells on the hill.

Over the water came the lifted song--
Blind pieces in a mighty game we sing;
Life's battle is a conquest for the strong;
The meaning shows in the defeated thing.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Mezzo Cammin

Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions chat would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,--
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.--
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.

Ion Minulescu:

Romanta Marilor Dispãruti

lui Stefan Petica si Iuliu Savescu
Noi suntem morti de mult...
Voi ne-ati uitat —
Si ne-ati uitat ca nu ne mai vedeti.
Dar noi din umbra negrilor pereti
Adeseori iesim sa va-intalnim,
Si-n visurile noastre retraim,
Ca si-n viata,
Cate-un vers ciudat
Din marele Poem, pe care voi
Ni l-ati platit cu bulgari de noroi”...

Noi suntem morti...
Si totusi, cand pornim
Spre lumea voastra — lumea celor vii —
In negrul gol al craniilor reci,
Noi,
Ca si voi,
La fel simtim
Vibratiile-acelor armonii
Ce-nsufletesc tacutele pustii
In care voi ne-ati ingropat pe veci!

Noi
Multilor ce nu ne-au inteles
Le vom ierta — caci suntem morti acum.
Iar celor ce pasesc pe-al nostru drum
Le vom fi frati!...
O! fratilor, cantati —
Caci noi de-aci din groapa v-ascultam!...

Cantati frumosul ingropat de-acei
Ce n-au putut sa-l re-nvieze-n vers,
Cutreierati intregul Uni vers,
Si-n cantecele voastre ingropati
Toti vechii Zei!

Iar maine-n zori, de-o fi sa ne intalnim
Pe-albastrele carari, de unde azi
Noi va privim —
O!... Maine-n zori, de-o fi sa ne-ntalnim,
Va vom primi cu bratele deschise,
Si-oblajii vostri,-adeseori scuipati,
I-om saruta —
Caci voi ne sunteti frati!...

Odelatã

În cinstea ta -
Cea mai frumoasã si mai nebunã dinte fete, -
Voi scri trei ode,
Trei romante,
Trei elegii
Si trei sonete.
Si-n cinstea ta, -
Cea mai cintatã din cate-n lume-au fost cintate, -
Din fiecare vers voi face
Cite-in breloc de-argint, în care
Gindirile-mi vor sta alãturi, ca niste pietre nestimate
De-a pururi încrustate-n bronzul
Unei coroane princiare…

Din tara-n care dorm de veacuri vestitii Faraoni,
Din tara
În care Sfincsii stau de vorbã cu Nilul sfint
Si cu Sahara,
Din tara-n care palmierii
Vestesc arabilor furtuna
Si caravanelor pierdute
Că nu se mai întorc nici una,
Din ţara asta minunată,
Tăcută,
Tristă
Şi bizară,
Îţi voi aduce trei smaralde nemaivăzute-n altă ţară,
Trei perle blonde, pescuite de Negri-n golful de Aden,
Şi trei rubine-nsângerate, ascunse toate-ntr-un refren
De Triolet,
Pe care nimeni nu-l va înţelege, fiindcă nu-i
Pe lume nimeni să-nţeleagă simbolul Trioletului!...

Celei care minte

Eu ştiu c-ai să mă-nşeli chiar mâine...
Dar fiindcă azi mi te dai toată,
Am să te iert -
E vechi păcatul
Şi nu eşti prima vinovată!...

În cinstea ta,
Cea mai frumoasă din toate fetele ce mint,
Am ars miresme-otrăvitoare în trepieduri de argint,
În pat ţi-am presărat garoafe
Şi maci -
Tot flori însângerate -
Şi cu parfum de brad pătat-am dantela pernelor curate,
Iar în covorul din perete ca şi-ntr-o glastră am înfipt
Trei ramuri verzi de lămâiţă
Şi-un ram uscat de-Eucalipt.

Dar iată,
Bate miezul nopţii...
E ora când amanţii,-alt'dată,
Sorbeau cu-amantele-mpreună otrava binecuvântată...
Deci vino,
Vino şi desprinde-ţi din pieptenul de fildeş părul,
Înfinge-ţi în priviri Minciuna
Şi-n caldul buzei Adevărul
Şi spune-mi:
Dintre câţi avură norocul să te aibă-aşa
Câţi au murit
Şi câţi blesteamă de-a nu te fi putut uita?...

Eu ştiu c-ai să mă-nşeli chiar mâine...
Dar fiindcă azi mi te dai toată.
Am să te iert -
E vechi păcatul
Şi nu eşti prima vinovată!...

Deci nu-ţi cer vorbe-mperecheate de sărutări,
Nu-ţi cer să-mi spui
Nimic din tot ce-ai spus la alţii,
Ci tot ce n-ai spus nimănui.
Şi nu-ţi cer patima nebună şi fără de sfârşit,
Nu-ţi cer
Nimic din ce poetul palid
Cerşeşte-n veci de veci, stingher,
Voi doar să-mi schimbi de poţi o clipă
Din şirul clipelor la fel,
Să-mi torni în suflet înfinitul unui pahar de hidromel,
În păr să-mi împleteşti cununa de laur verde
Şi în priviri
Să-mi împietreşti pe veci minciuna neprihănitelor iubiri.
Şi-aşa tăcuţi -
Ca două umbre, trântiţi pe maldărul de flori -
Să-ncepem slujba-n miez de noapte
Şi mâine s-o sfârşim în zori!

Celei mai aproape

De ce-ţi sunt ochii verzi -
Coloarea wagnerianelor motive -
Şi părul negru ca greşeala imaculatelor fecioare?
De ce-ţi sunt buzele pătate de violete trecătoare?
Şi mâinile de ce-ţi sunt albe ca albul tristelor altare
Din Babilon,
Şi din Ninive?

De ce, când plângi,
În plânsu-ţi moare o-ntreagă lume de petale
De trandafiri,
De chiparoase,
De nuferi albi
Şi crizanteme?...
De ce, când plângi,
Cu tine plânge tristeţea blondelor opale,
Iar torţele aprinse-n umbra castelelor medievale
Se sting suflate ca de groaza demoniacelor blesteme?...
De ce, când cânţi,
Cu tine cântă un infinit de armonii
Ce năvălesc tumultoase
Din golul zărilor,
Din astre,
Din zborul păsărilor albe,
Din fundul mărilor albastre,
Din lumea morţilor,
Din lumea părerilor de rău târzii?

Şi când stai ochi în ochi cu-amanţii - poeţi

Ce-ţi cântă ochii,
Părul
Şi buzele -
Când te-nfioară cuvintele ce n-au fost spuse,
Când in penumbra violetă a trioletelor apuse
Pui într-o cumpănă Minciuna
Şi-ntr-altă cumpănă-Adevărul,
De ce te pleci spre cel mai tânăr dintre poeţi,
Şi-i strângi cu sete
În palme capul,
Ca-ntr-o gheară de vultur însetat de sânge,
Şi dinţii tăi
De ce-i pictează, în rozu-obrajilor, motive
Asiriene,
Din poemul trăit de sfintele poete
În noaptea-altarelor păgâne
Din Babilon
Şi din Ninive?...

Pablo Neruda:

Poema 1

Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos,
te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.

Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava
y hace saltar el hijo del fondo de la tierra.

Fui solo como un túnel. De mí huían los pájaros
y en mí la noche entraba su invasión poderosa.

Para sobrevivirme te forjé como un arma,
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.

Pero cae la hora de la venganza, y te amo.
Cuerpo de piel, de musgo, de leche ávida y firme.

Ah los vasos del pecho! Ah los ojos de ausencia!
Ah las rosas del pubis! Ah tu voz lenta y triste!

Cuerpo de mujer mía, persistiré en tu gracia.
Mi sed, mi ansia sin límite, mi camino indeciso!

Oscuros cauces donde la sed eterna sigue,
y la fatiga sigue, y el dolor infinito.

Body of a Woman

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
You look like a world, lying in surrender.

My rough peasant’s body digs in you
And makes the sun leap from the depths of the earth.

I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
And night swamped me with its crushing invasion.

To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
Like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.

Oh, the goblets of the breast!  Oh, the eyes of absence!
Oh, the roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad!

Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!

Dark, river-beds, where the eternal thirst flows
And weariness follows, and the infinate ache.

Poema 20

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche esta estrellada, y

tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

 Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La bese tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Como no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido

Oír la noche inmensa, mas inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Que importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no esta conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no esta conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos arboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuanto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

Tonight I can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

 La Cancion Desesperada

Emerge tu recuerdo de la noche en que estoy.
El río anuda al mar su lamento obstinado.

Abandonado como los muelles en el alba.
Es la hora de partir, oh abandonado!

Sobre mi corazón llueven frías corolas.
Oh sentina de escombros, feroz cueva de náufragos!

En ti se acumularon las guerras y los vuelos.
De ti alzaron las alas los pájaros del canto.

Todo te lo tragaste, como la lejanía.
Como el mar, como el tiempo. Todo en ti fue naufragio!

Era la alegre hora del asalto y el beso.
La hora del estupor que ardía como un faro.

Ansiedad de piloto, furia de buzo ciego,
turbia embriaguez de amor, todo en ti fue naufragio!

En la infancia de niebla mi alma alada y herida.
Descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio!

Te ceñiste al dolor, te agarraste al deseo.
Te tumbó la tristeza, todo en ti fue naufragio!

Hice retroceder la muralla de sombra,
anduve más allá del deseo y del acto.

Oh carne, carne mía, mujer que amé y perdí,
a ti en esta hora húmeda, evoco y hago canto.

Como un vaso albergaste la infinita ternura,
y el infinito olvido te trizó como a un vaso.

Era la negra, negra soledad de las islas,
y allí, mujer de amor, me acogieron tus brazos.

Era la sed y el hambre, y tú fuiste la fruta.
Era el duelo y las ruinas, y tú fuiste el milagro.

Ah mujer, no sé cómo pudiste contenerme
 en la tierra de tu alma, y en la cruz de tus brazos!

Mi deseo de ti fue el más terrible y corto,
el más revuelto y ebrio, el más tirante y ávido.

Cementerio de besos, aún hay fuego en tus tumbas,
aún los racimos arden picoteados de pájaros.

Oh la boca mordida, oh los besados miembros,
oh los hambrientos dientes, oh los cuerpos trenzados.

Oh la cópula loca de esperanza y esfuerzo
en que nos anudamos y nos desesperamos.

Y la ternura, leve como el agua y la harina.
Y la palabra apenas comenzada en los labios.

Ese fue mi destino y en él viajó mi anhelo,
y en él cayó mi anhelo, todo en ti fue naufragio!

Oh, sentina de escombros, en ti todo caía,
qué dolor no exprimiste, qué olas no te ahogaron!

De tumbo en tumbo aún llameaste y cantaste.
De pie como un marino en la proa de un barco.

Aún floreciste en cantos, aún rompiste en corrientes.
Oh sentina de escombros, pozo abierto y amargo.

Pálido buzo ciego, desventurado hondero,
descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio!

Es la hora de partir, la dura y fría hora
que la noche sujeta a todo horario.

El cinturón ruidoso del mar ciñe la costa.
Surgen frías estrellas, emigran negros pájaros.

Abandonado como los muelles en el alba.
Sólo la sombra trémula se retuerce en mis manos.

Ah más allá de todo. Ah más allá de todo.

Es la hora de partir. Oh abandonado!

A Song of Despair

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.


Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!

Alden Nowlan:

This is What I Wanted to Sign off With

You know what I’m
like when I’m sick. I’d sooner
curse than cry. And people don’t often
know what they’re saying in the end.
Or I could die in my sleep.

So I’ll say it now. Here it is.
Don’t pay any attention
if I don’t get it right
when it’s for real. Blame that
on terror and pain.
or the stuff they’re shooting
into my veins. This is what I wanted to
sign off with. Bend
closer, listen, I love you.

Edgar Allan Poe:

Eldorado

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more

William Shakespeare:

Sonnet XVIII: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Sonnet LXXII

O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

Percy Bysshe Shelley:

Mutability

We are the clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!--yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost forever:
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest.--A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.--One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond foe, or cast our cares away:
It is the same!--For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.

 Song

Rarely, rarely comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not her.

Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure;--
Thou wilt never come for pity,
Thou wilt come for pleasure;
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight!
The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed,
And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.
I love snow and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Everything almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,
And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good;
Between thee and me
What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love--though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee--
Thou art love and life! O come!
Make once more my heart thy home!

To …

When passion’s trance is overpast
If tenderness and truth could last,
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
I should not weep, I should not weep!

It were enough to feel, to see,
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
And dream the rest - and been and be
The secret food of fire unseen,
Could’st thou but be as thou has been.

After the slumber of the year
The woodland violets reappear;
All things revive in field or grove,
And sky and sea, but two, which move
And form all others, life and love.

George Topanarceau:

Cantec

Frumoasă eşti, pădurea mea,
Când umbra-i înca rară
Şi printre crengi adie-abia
Un vânt de primăvară...

Când de sub frunze moarte ies
În umbră viorele,
Iar eu străbat huceagul des
Cu gândurile mele..

Când strălucesc sub rouă grea
Cărări de soare pline,
Frumoasă eşti, pădurea mea.
Şi singură ca mine...


Balada Mortii

Cobora pe Topolog
D'intre munti, la vale...
Si la umbra unui stog
A cãzut din cale

În ce varã ? In ce an?
Anii trec ca apa...
El era drumet sãrman
Muncitor cu sapa.

Oamenii l-au îngropat
Într-un loc aiurea,
Unde drumul cãtre sat
Taie-n lung pãdurea.

Si de-atunci, lãngã mormânt,
Plopi cu frunzã rarã
S-au zbãtut usor în vânt,
Zile lungi de varã .

Soarele spre asfintit
Si-a urmat cãrarea.
Zi cu zi l-au troienit
Vremea si uitarea.

Dimineata ca un fum
Urcã pe coline,
Zvon de glasuri dinspre drum
Pana-n preajmã -i vine.

Peste vãrfuri lunecând
In argint, condurii
Înfioarã când si când
Linistea pãdurii..

Numai colo-ntr-un frunzar
Galben in luminã ,
Stã pe-o creangã de artar
Pasãre strãinã

Stã si-asteaptã fãrã glas
Parcã  sã mãsoare
Cum se mutã , ceas cu ceas,
Umbra dupã soare...

Astfel, tot mai nestiut
Spre adâ nc îl furã
Si-l î ngroapã -n sânu-i mut
Vesnica Naturã .

Vara trece; pe cãrãri
Frunza-n codru sunã .
Trec cernite înserãri,
Nopti adãnci cu lunã .

Iar când norii-nvã luiesc
Alba noptii Doamnã ,
Peste groapa lui pornesc
Vânturi lungi de toamnã ...


Paul Verlaine:

Lassitude

De la douceur, de la douceur, de la douceur!
Calme un peu ces transports fébriles, ma charmante.
Même au fort du déduit parfois, vois-tu, l'amante
Doit avoir l'abandon paisible de la soeur.

Sois langoureuse, fais ta caresse endormante,
Bien égaux tes soupirs et ton regard berceur.
Va, l'étreinte jalouse et le spasme obsesseur
Ne valent pas un long baiser, même qui mente!

Mais dans ton cher coeur d'or, me dis-tu, mon enfant,
La fauve passion va sonnant l'olifant!...
Laisse-la trompetter à son aise, la gueuse!

Mets ton front sur mon front et ta main dans ma main,
Et fais-moi des serments que tu rompras demain
Et pleurons jusqu'au jour, ô petite fougueuse!

Cauchemar

J'ai vu passer dans mon rêve
-Tel l'ouragan sur la grève,
D'une main tenant un glaive
Et de l'autre un sablier,
Ce cavalier

Des ballades d'Allemagne
Qu'à travers ville et campagne,
Et du fleuve à la montagne,
Et des forêts au vallon,
Un étalon

Rouge-flamme et noir d'ébène,
Sans bride, ni mors, ni rêne,
Ni hop! ni cravache, entraîne
Parmi des râlements sourds
Toujours! Toujours!

Un grand feutre à longue plume
Ombrait son oeil qui s'allume
Et s'éteint. Tel, dans la brume,
Eclate et meurt l'éclair bleu
D'une arme à feu.

Comme l'aile d'une orfraie
Qu'un subit orage effraie,
Par l'air que la neige raie,
Son manteau se soulevant
Claquait au vent,

Et montrait d'un air de gloire
Un torse d'ombre et d'ivoire,
Tanids que dans la nuit noire
Luisaient en des cris stridents
Trente-deux dents.

Mon Rêve familier

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant
D'une femme inconnue, et que j'aime, et qui m'aime,
Et qui n'est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même
Ni tout à fait une autre, et m'aime et me comprend.

Car elle me comprend, et mon coeur transparent
Pour elle seule, hélas! cesse d'être un problème
Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front blême,
Elle seule les sait rafraîchir, en pleurant.

Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse? Je l'ignore.
Son nom? Je me souviens qu'il est doux et sonore,
Comme ceux des aimés que la vie exila.

Son regard est pareil au regard des statues,
Et, pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a
L'inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues.

William Wordsworth:

Perfect Woman

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils

Walt Whitman:

A child said, What is the grass?

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

Oscar Wilde:

The Ballad of Reading Gaol
I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
'THAT FELLOW'S GOT TO SWING.'

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty space.

He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats,and notes
Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass:
He does not pray with lips of clay
For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas.

II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
In the suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its ravelled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
As though it had been wine!And I and all the souls in pain,
Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
That in the springtime shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer's collar take
His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
In the black dock's dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
In God's sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other's way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
Two outcast men we were:
The world had thrust us from its heart,
And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
Had caught us in its snare

III

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called,
And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
The hangman's hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher's doom
Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
And make his face a mask.
Or else he might be moved, and try
To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
Pent up in Murderers' Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother's soul?
With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fools' Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
The Devil's Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
Went shuffling through the gloom:
And each man trembled as he crept
Into his numbered tombThat night the empty corridors
Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watchers watched him as he slept,
And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
With a hangman close at hand.

But there is no sleep when men must weep
Who never yet have wept:
So we - the fool, the fraud, the knave -
That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
Another's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
Mad mourners of a corse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
Was the savour of Remorse.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
Mad mourners of a corse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
Was the savour of Remorse.


The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,
But never came the day:
And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
Like travellers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and long they sang,
For they sang to wake the dead.

'Oho!' they cried, 'The world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame.'

No things of air these antics were,
That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
With the mincing step of a demirep
Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning steel
We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars,
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
Are all the gallows' need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or to give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
And what was dead was Hope.


For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
From some leper in his lair

And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.

IV

There is no chapel on the day
On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
Or his face is far too wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,
But not in wonted way,
For this man's face was white with fear,
And that man's face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all
Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived,
Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
And through each hollow mind
The Memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And Horror stalked before each man,
And Terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,
And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at,
By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
And the soft flesh by day,
It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint
Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth
Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
Christ brings His will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
May bloom in prison-air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who tramp the yard
That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit may not walk by night
That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may but weep that lies
In such unholy ground,

He is at peace - this wretched man -
At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
They did not even toll
A requiem that might have brought
Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
And gave him to the flies:
They mocked the swollen purple throat,
And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonoured grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
To Life's appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn

V

I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,Since first
Man took his brother's life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most evil fan.

This too I know - and wise it were
If each could know the same -
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds,
Bloom well in prison-air;
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the Warder is Despair.

For they starve the little frightened child
Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is a foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,
And twilight in one's cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.And thus we rust

Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan:
But God's eternal Laws are kind
And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat,
And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
His soul of his soul's strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became Christ's snow-white seal.

VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
Eaten by teeth of flame,
In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
William Butler Yeats

When You Are Old
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. Anonymous:
 Popas Ultim

Add cAaption

Afterthoughts

Rupert Brooke

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Robert Frost
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Mary E Frye

Do not stand by my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Wilfred Owen

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
 Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
 Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
 Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

 In all my dreams before my helpless sight
 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

 If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
 Bitter as the cud
 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
  Pro patria mori.

Christina Rossetti

Remember

 Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

William Butler Yeats

He wishes for the cloths of heaven

HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Abendlied
(Wandrers Nachtlied)

Über allen Gipfeln

Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Notturno
(Wanderer's Nightsong)

Above, all the summits

are still.

In all the tree-tops

you will

feel
but the dew.

The birds in the forest ceased talking.

Wait: after walking

you shall rest, too.

Mailied

 Wie herrlich leuchtet

 Mir die Natur !
 Wie glänzt die Sonne !
 Wie lacht die Flur !

 Es dringen Blüten

 Aus jedem Zweig
 Und tausend Stimmen
 Aus dem Gesträuch

 Und Freud und Wonne

 Aus jeder Brust.
 O Erd, O Sonne !
 O Glück, o Lust!

 O Lieb, o Liebe!

 So golden schön,
 Wie Morgenwolken
 Auf jenen Höhn !

 Du segnest herrlich

Das frische Feld,
 Im Blütendampfe
 Die volle Welt.

 O Mädchen , Mädchen ,

 Wie lieb ich dich !
 Wie blickt dein Auge !
 Wie liebst du mich !

 So liebt die Lerche

Gesang und Luft,
 Und Morgenblummen
 Den Himmelsduft,

 Wie ich dich liebe

 Mit warmem Blut,
 Die du mir Jugend
 Und Freud und Mut

 Zu neuen Liedern

 Und Tänzen gibst.
 Sei ewig glücklich,
 Wie du mich liebst !

May Day Celebration

How grandly nature
Shines upon me!
How glistens the sun!
How laughs the mead!

From countless branches
The blossoms thrust,
A thousand voices
From underbrush,

And joy ecstatic
Fills everyone.
O sun! O earth!
O risk! O fun!

O love, oh, lovely,
So golden fair
Like morning cloudlets
On that hill there!

You prosper grandly
The dew-fresh fields
With breath of flowers;
The whole Earth yields!

O maiden, maiden,
How I love thee!
Your eye's a-sparkle--
How you love me!

Just as the lark loves
Singing and sky,
And morning-blooms thrive
On heav'n-mists high--

So do I love you,
With throbbing heart,
Who give me the youth,
Joy, courage, art

To fashion new songs,
New dances free.
Be ever happy,
As you love me!

Neue Liebe Neues Leben

 Herz , mein Herz , was soll das geben ?
 Was bedränget dich so sehr ?
 Welch ein fremdes , neues Leben !
 Ich erkenne dich nicht mehr.
 Weg ist alles , was du liebtest,
 Weg , warum du dich betrübtest,
 Weg dein Fleiß und deine Ruh -
 Ach wie kamst du nur dazu !

 Fesselt dich die Jugenblüte ,
 Diese liebliche Gestalt,
 Dieser Blick voll Treu und Güte,
 Mit unendlicher Gewalt ?
 Will ich rasch mich ihr entziehen,
 Mich ermannen , ihr entfiehen
 Führet mich im Augenblick,
 Ach , mein Weg zu ihr zurück.

 Und an diesem Zauberfädchen,
 Das sich nicht zerreißen läßt,
 Hält das liebe , lose Mädchen
 Mich so wider Willen fest;
 Muß in ihrem Zauberkreise
 Leben nun auf ihre Weise.
 Die Verändrung , ach , wie groß !
 Liebe ! Liebe ! laß mich los !

New Love, New Life

HEART! my heart! what means this feeling?
What oppresseth thee so sore?
What strange life is o'er me stealing!
I acknowledge thee no more.
Fled is all that gave thee gladness,
Fled the cause of all thy sadness,
Fled thy peace, thine industry-
Ah, why suffer it to be?

Say, do beauty's graces youthful,
Does this form so fair and bright,
Does this gaze, so kind, so truthful,
Chain thee with unceasing might?
Would I tear me from her boldly,
Courage take, and fly her coldly,
Back to her. I'm forthwith led
By the path I seek to tread.

By a thread I ne'er can sever,
For 'tis 'twined with magic skill,
Doth the cruel maid for ever
Hold me fast against my will.
While those magic chains confine me,
To her will I must resign me.
Ah, the change in truth is great!
Love! kind love! release me straight!

Gesang der Geister uber den Wassern

Des Menschen Seele
Gleicht dem Wasser:
Vom Himmel kommt es,
Zum Himmel steigt es,
Und wieder nieder
Zur Erde muß es,
Ewig wechselnd.

Strömt von der hohen,
Steilen Felswand
Der reine Strahl,
Dann stäubt er lieblich
In Wolkenwellen
Zum glatten Fels,
Und leicht empfangen
Wallt er verschleiernd,
Leisrauschend
Zur Tiefe nieder.

Ragen Klippen
Dem Sturz entgegen,
Schäumt er unmutig
Stufenweise
Zum Abgrund.
Im flachen Bette

Schleicht er das Wiesental hin,
Und in dem glatten See
Weiden ihr Antlitz
Alle Gestirne.

Wind ist der Welle
Lieblicher Buhler;
Wind mischt vom Grund aus
Schäumende Wogen.

Seele des Menschen,
Wie gleichst du dem Wasser!
Schicksal des Menschen,
Wie gleichst du dem Wind

Spirit Song Over The Waters

THE soul of man
Resembleth water:
From heaven it cometh,
To heaven it soareth.
And then again
To earth descendeth,
Changing ever

Down from the lofty
Rocky wall
Streams the bright flood,
Then spreadeth gently
In cloudy billows
O'er the smooth rock,
And welcomed kindly,
Veiling, on roams it,
Soft murmuring,
Tow'rd the abyss.

Cliffs projecting
Oppose its progress,--
Angrily foams it
Down to the bottom,
Step by step.

Now, in flat channel,
Through the meadowland steals it,
And in the polish'd lake
Each constellation

Joyously peepeth.
Wind is the loving
Wooer of waters;
Wind blends together

Billows all-foaming.
Spirit of man,
Thou art like unto water!
Fortune of man,
Thou art like unto wind!

Matthias Claudius
Abendlied

Der Mond ist aufgegangen,
Die goldnen Sternlein prangen
Am Himmel hell und klar;
Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget,
Und aus den Wiesen steiget
Der weiße Nebel wunderbar.

Wie ist die Welt so stille,
Und in der Dämmrung Hülle
So traulich und so hold!
Als eine stille Kammer,
Wo ihr des Tages Jammer
Verschlafen und vergessen sollt.

Seht ihr den Mond dort stehen?
Er ist nur halb zu sehen
Und ist doch rund und schön!
So sind wohl manche Sachen,
Die wir getrost belachen,
Weil unsre Augen sie nicht sehn.

Wir stolze Menschenkinder
sind eitel arme Sünder
und wissen gar nicht viel;
wir spinnen Luftgespinste
und suchen viele Künste
und kommen weiter von dem Ziel.

Gott, laß dein Heil uns schauen
Auf nichts Vergänglichs trauen
Nicht Eitelkeit uns freun!
Laß uns einfältig werden,
Und vor dir hier auf Erden
Wie Kinder fromm und fröhlich sein!

Wollst endlich sonder Grämen
aus dieser Welt uns nehmen
durch einen sanften Tod,
und wenn du uns genommen,
laß uns in Himmel kommen,
du, unser Herr und unser Gott!

So legt euch denn, ihr Brüder,
In Gottes Namen nieder;
Kalt ist der Abendhauch.
Verschon uns, Gott! mit Strafen,
Und laß uns ruhig schlafen!
Und unsern kranken Nachbar auch!

Evening Song

The moon has been arising,
the stars in golden guising
adorn the heavens bright.
The woods stand still in shadows,
and from the meads and meadows
lift whitish mists into the night.

The world in stillness clouded
and soft in twilight shrouded,
so peaceful and so fair.
Just like a chamber waiting,
where you can rest abating
the daytime's mis'ry and despair.

Behold the moon - and wonder
why half of her stands yonder,
yet she is round and fair.
We follow empty visions
and artisans' ambitions
because our minds are unaware.

We vain and wretched sinners
presume to be the winners,
but we know nothing yet.
So many neat solutions
are nought but great delusions
that farther off the path us get.

God, grant us Thy salvation!
No worldly aspiration,
no vanity allow!
Like children simple-hearted,
and joyful like we started,
let us become and teach us how!

And lastly, grant us leaving
the world without much grieving,
let peaceful be our death.
When from the earth You take us,
let heaven's joy await us:
stand by us, Lord, at our last breath.

So, brothers, in His keeping
prepare yourself for sleeping;
cold is the evening breeze.
Spare us, oh Lord, Your ire,
let rest us by the fire,
and grant our ailing neighbour peace.

Hermann Hesse

Stufen

Wie jede Blüte welkt und jede Jugend
Dem Alter weicht, blüht jede Lebensstufe,
Blüht jede Weisheit auch und jede Tugend
Zu ihrer Zeit und darf nicht ewig dauern.
Es muß das Herz bei jedem Lebensrufe
Bereit zum Abschied sein und Neubeginne,
Um sich in Tapferkeit und ohne Trauern
In andre, neue Bindungen zu geben.
Und jedem Anfang wohnt ein Zauber inne,
Der uns beschützt und der uns hilft, zu leben.

Wir sollen heiter Raum um Raum durchschreiten,
An keinem wie an einer Heimat hängen,
Der Weltgeist will nicht fesseln uns und engen,
Er will uns Stuf' um Stufe heben, weiten.
Kaum sind wir heimisch einem Lebenskreise
Und traulich eingewohnt, so droht Erschlaffen,
Nur wer bereit zu Aufbruch ist und Reise,
Mag lähmender Gewöhnung sich entraffen.

Es wird vielleicht auch noch die Todesstunde
Uns neuen Räumen jung entgegen senden,
Des Lebens Ruf an uns wird niemals enden...
Wohlan denn, Herz, nimm Abschied und gesunde!

Steps

Like ev'ry flower wilts, like youth is fading
and turns to age, so also one's achieving:
Each virtue and each wisdom needs parading
in one's own time, and must not last forever.
The heart must be, at each new call for leaving,
prepared to part and start without the tragic,
without the grief - with courage to endeavor
a novel bond, a disparate connection:
for each beginning bears a special magic
that nurtures living and bestows protection.

We'll walk from space to space in glad progression
and should not cling to one as homestead for us.
The cosmic spirit will not bind nor bore us;
it lifts and widens us in ev'ry session:
for hardly set in one of life's expanses
we make it home, and apathy commences.
But only he, who travels and takes chances,
can break the habits' paralyzing stances.

It might be, even, that the last of hours
will make us once again a youthful lover:
The call of life to us forever flowers...
Anon, my heart: Say farewell and recover!

Frederick von Schiller

Ode an die Freude

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, den Heiligtum.
Deine Zauber binden wieder,
Was die Mode streng geteilt,
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

Seid umschlungen Millionen!
Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt!
Brüder - überm Sternenzelt
Muß ein lieber Vater wohnen.

Wem der große Wurf gelungen,
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
Mische seinen Jubel ein!
Ja - wer auch nur eine Seele
Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle
Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!

Was den großen Ring bewohnet
Huldige der Sympathe!
Zu den Sternen leitet sie,
Wo der Unbekannte thronet.

Freude trinken alle Wesen
An den Brüsten der Natur,
Alle Guten, alle Bösen
Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
Küsse gab sie uns und Reben,
Einen Freund, geprüft im Tod,
Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,
Und der Cherub steht vor Gott

Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?
Ahnest du den Schöpfer Welt?
Such ihn überm Sternenzelt,
Über Sternen muß er wohnen.

Freude heißt die starke Feder
In der ewigen Natur.
Freude, Freude treibt die Räder
In der großen Weltenuhr.
Blumen lockt sie aus den Keimen,
Sonnen aus dem Firmament,
Sphären rollt sie aus den Räumen,
Die des Sehers Rohr nicht kennt.

Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen
Durch des Himmels prächt'gen Plan,
Wandelt Brüder eure Bahn,
Freudig wie ein Held zum Siegen.

Aus der Wahrheit Feuerspiegel
Lächelt sie den Forscher an.
Zu der Tugend steilem Hügel
Leitet sie des Dulders Bahn.
Auf des Glaubens Sonnenberge
Sieht man ihre Fahnen wehn,
Durch den Riß gesprengter Särge
Sie im Chor der Engel stehn.

Duldet mutig Millionen!
Duldet für die beßre Welt!
Droben überm Sternenzelt
Wird ein großer Gott belohnen.

Göttern kann man nicht vergelten,
Schön ist ihnen gleich zu sein.
Gram und Armut solln sich melden,
Mit den Frohen sich erfreun.
Groll und Rache sein vergessen,
Unserm Todfeind sei verziehn,
Keine Träne soll ihn pressen,
Keine Reue nage ihn.

Unser Schuldbuch sei vernichtet,
Ausgesöhnt die ganze Welt!
Brüder - überm Sternenzelt
Richtet Gott wie ihr gerichtet.

Freude sprudelt in Pokalen,

In der Traube goldnem Blut
Trinken Sanftmut Kannibalen,
Die Verzweiflung Heldenmut.
Brüder fliegt von euren Sitzen,
Wenn der volle Römer kreist,
Laßt den Schaum zum Himmel spritzen:
Dieses Glas dem guten Geist!

Den der Sterne Wirbel loben,

Den des Seraphs Hymne preist,
Dieses Glas dem guten Geist,
Überm Sternenzelt dort droben!

Festen Mut in schweren Leiden,

Hilfe, wo die Unschuld weint,Ewigkeit geschwornen Eiden,
Wahrheit gegen Freund und Feind,
Männerstolz vor Königsthronen,
Brüder, gält es Gut und Blut!
Dem Verdienste seine Kronen,

Untergang der Lügenbrut!

Schließt den heil'gen Zirkel dichter,

Schwört bei diesem goldnen Wein,
Dem Gelübde treu zu sein,
Schwört es bei dem Sternenrichter!

Rettung von Tyrannenketten,
Grossmut auch dem Boesewicht,
Hoffnung auf den Sterbebetten,
Gnade auf dem Hochgericht!
Auch die Toten sollen leben!
Brueder, trinkt und stimmet ein,
Allen Suendern soll vergeben,
Und die Hoelle nicht mehr sein.

Eine heitre Abschiedsstunde!

Suessen Schlaf im Leichentuch!
Brueder--einen sanften Spruch
Aus des Totenrichters Mund.

Ode to Joy

Joy, thou beauteous godly lightning,

Daughter of Elysium,
Fire drunken we are ent’ring
Heavenly, thy holy home!
Thy enchantments bind together,
What did custom stern divide,
Every man becomes a brother,
Where thy gentle wings abide.

Chorus.

Be embrac’d, ye millions yonder!
Take this kiss throughout the world!
Brothers—o’er the stars unfurl’d
Must reside a loving Father.

Who the noble prize achieveth,

Good friend of a friend to be;
Who a lovely wife attaineth,
Join us in his jubilee!
Yes—he too who but one being
On this earth can call his own!
He who ne’er was able, weeping
Stealeth from this league alone!

Chorus.
He who in the great ring dwelleth,
Homage pays to sympathy!
To the stars above leads she,
Where on high the Unknown reigneth.

Joy is drunk by every being
From kind nature’s flowing breasts,
Every evil, every good thing
For her rosy footprint quests.
Gave she us both vines and kisses,
In the face of death a friend,
To the worm were given blisses
And the Cherubs God attend.

Chorus.
Fall before him, all ye millions?
Know’st thou the Creator, world?
Seek above the stars unfurl’d,
Yonder dwells He in the heavens.

Joy commands the hardy mainspring
Of the universe eterne.
Joy, oh joy the wheel is driving
Which the worlds’ great clock doth turn.
Flowers from the buds she coaxes,
Suns from out the hyaline,
Spheres she rotates through expanses,
Which the seer can’t divine.

Chorus.
As the suns are flying, happy
Through the heaven’s glorious plane,
Travel, brothers, down your lane,
Joyful as in hero’s vict’ry.

From the truth’s own fiery mirror
On the searcher doth she smile.
Up the steep incline of honor
Guideth she the suff’rer’s mile.
High upon faith’s sunlit mountains
One can see her banner flies,
Through the breach of open’d coffins
She in angel’s choir doth rise.

Chorus.

Suffer on courageous millions!
Suffer for a better world!
O’er the tent of stars unfurl’d
God rewards you from the heavens.

Gods can never be requited,
Beauteous ’tis, their like to be.
Grief and want shall be reported,
So to cheer with gaiety.
Hate and vengeance be forgotten,
Pardon’d be our mortal foe,
Not a teardrop shall him dampen,
No repentance bring him low.

Chorus.
Let our book of debts be cancell’d!
Reconcile the total world!
Brothers—o’er the stars unfurl’d
God doth judge, as we have settl’d.

Joy doth bubble from this rummer,
From the golden blood of grape
Cannibals imbibe good temper,
Weak of heart their courage take—
Brothers, fly up from thy places,
When the brimming cup doth pass,
Let the foam shoot up in spaces:
To the goodly Soul this glass!

Chorus.
Whom the crown of stars doth honor,
Whom the hymns of Seraphs bless,
To the goodly Soul this glass
O’er the tent of stars up yonder!

Courage firm in grievous trial,
Help, where innocence doth scream,
Oaths which sworn to are eternal,
Truth to friend and foe the same,
Manly pride ’fore kingly power—
Brothers, cost it life and blood,—
Honor to whom merits honor,
Ruin to the lying brood!

Chorus.
Closer draw the holy circle,
Swear it by this golden wine,
Faithful to the vow divine,
Swear it by the Judge celestial!

Rescue from the tyrant’s fetters,
Mercy to the villain e’en,
Hope within the dying hours,
Pardon at the guillotine!
E’en the dead shall live in heaven!
Brothers, drink and all agree,
Every sin shall be forgiven,
Hell forever cease to be.

Chorus.
A serene departing hour!
Pleasant sleep beneath the pall!
Brothers—gentle words for all
Doth the Judge of mortals utter!