classic poetry
Franciscae meae laudes
POSTED IN classic poetry April 12, 2014
Franciscae meae laudesNovis te cantabo chordis,
O novelletum quod ludis
In solitudine cordis.Esto sertis implicata,
Ô femina delicata
Per quam solvuntur peccata!Sicut beneficum Lethe,
Hauriam oscula de te,
Quae imbuta es magnete.Quum vitiorum tempegtas
Turbabat omnes semitas,
Apparuisti, Deitas,Velut stella salutaris
In naufragiis amaris…..
Suspendam cor tuis aris!Piscina plena virtutis,
Fons æternæ juventutis
Labris vocem redde mutis!Quod erat spurcum, cremasti;
Quod rudius, exaequasti;
Quod debile, confirmasti.In fame mea taberna
In nocte mea lucerna,
Recte me semper guberna.Adde nunc vires viribus,
Dulce balneum suavibus
Unguentatum odoribus!Meos circa lumbos mica,
O castitatis lorica,
Aqua tincta seraphica;Patera gemmis corusca,
Panis salsus, mollis esca,
Divinum vinum, Francisca!
Charles Baudelaire
Emanuel Swedenborg
POSTED IN classic poetry April 12, 2014
Emanuel SwedenborgTaller than the others, this man
Walked among them, at a distance,
Now and then calling the angels
By their secret names. He would see
That which earthly eyes do not see:
The fierce geometry, the crystal
Labyrinth of God and the sordid
Milling of infernal delights.
He knew that Glory and Hell too
Are in your soul, with all their myths;
He knew, like the Greek, that the days
Of time are Eternity’s mirrors.
In unadorned Latin he went on listing
The unconditional Last Things.
Jorge Luis Borges
I got so I could take his name
POSTED IN classic poetry April 1, 2014
I got so I could take his nameI got so I could take his name –
Without – Tremendous gain –
That Stop-sensation – on my Soul –
And Thunder – in the Room –I got so I could walk across
That Angle in the floor,
Where he turned so, and I turned – how –
And all our Sinew tore –I got so I could stir the Box –
In which his letters grew
Without that forcing, in my breath –
As Staples – driven through –Could dimly recollect a Grace –
I think, they call it “God” –
Renowned to ease Extremity –
When Formula, had failed –And shape my Hands –
Petition’s way,
Tho’ ignorant of a word
That Ordination – utters –My Business – with the Cloud,
If any Power behind it, be,
Not subject to Despair –
It care, in some remoter way,
For so minute affair
As Misery –
Itself, too vast, for interrupting – more –
Emily Dickinson
who were so dark at heart
POSTED IN classic poetry March 30, 2014
who were so dark at heartwho were so dark of heart they might not speak,
a little innocence will make them sing;
teach them to see who could not learn to look
–from the reality of all nothingwill actually lift a luminous whole;
turn sheer despairing to most perfect gay,
nowhere to here, never too beautiful:
a little innocence creates a day.And something thought or done or wished without
a little innocence, although it were
as red as terror and as green as fate,
greyly shall fall and dully disappear–but the proud power of himself death immense
is not so as a little innocence
e e cummings
I Am the Only Being Whose Doom
POSTED IN classic poetry March 9, 2014
I Am the Only Being Whose DoomI am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn;
I never caused a thought of gloom,
A smile of joy, since I was born.In secret pleasure, secret tears,
This changeful life has slipped away,
As friendless after eighteen years,
As lone as on my natal day.There have been times I cannot hide,
There have been times when this was drear,
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here.But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care;
And they have died so long ago,
I hardly now believe they were.First melted off the hope of youth,
Then fancy’s rainbow fast withdrew;
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew.’Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow, servile, insincere;
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there.
Emily Brontë
An Echo
POSTED IN classic poetry March 9, 2014
An Echo
Never sleeping, still awake,
Pleasing most when most I speak;
The delight of old and young,
Though I speak without a tongue.
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,
Like the labourers of Babel.
Now I am a dog, or cow,
I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can sing,
Like the warblers of the spring.
Let the lovesick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice:
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy.
Though a lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out:
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle.
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
When I’m vext, can’t keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear;
Much I dread the courtier’s fate,
When his merit’s out of date,
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.
Jonathan Swift
The Haidamaks
POSTED IN classic poetry March 7, 2014
The HaidamaksEverything moves, everything passes, and there is no end.
Where did it all disappear? From where did it all come?
Both the fool and the wise man know nothing.
One lives, one dies, one thing blooms,
But another has withered, withered away forever
And winds have carried off yellowed leaves,
And the sun will rise, as it used to rise,
And crimson stars will float off as they used to,
They will float afterwards, and you, white-faced one,
Will saunter along the blue sky.
Taras Shevchenko
Everyone has someone, a friend to love
POSTED IN classic poetry March 2, 2014
Everyone has someone, a friend to love
Rumi
رنجور
POSTED IN classic poetry March 2, 2014
رنجور
گفته شد که هر صناعتگر که رست
در صناعت جایگاه نیست جست
جست بنا موضعی ناساخته
گشته ویران سقفها انداخته
جست سقا کوزای کش آب نیست
وان دروگر خانهای کش باب نیست
Rumi
His Books
POSTED IN classic poetry February 21, 2014
His BooksMy days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where’er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.With them I take delight in weal
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew’d
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears;
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
Robert Southey
