classic poetry

Charles d’Orléans

POSTED IN classic poetry March 24, 2012

 
 
Poem – français moderne

Le temps a laissé son manteau.
De vent, de froidure et de pluie,
Et s’est vêtu de broderie,
De soleil luisant, clair et beau.

Il n’y a bête, ni oiseau
Qu’en son jargon ne chante ou crie :
Le temps a laissé son manteau.

Rivière, fontaine et ruisseau
Portent en livrée jolie,
Gouttes d’argent d’orfèvrerie,
Chacun s’habille de nouveau :
Le temps a laissé son manteau.

 
 Poem – vieux français

Le temps a laissié son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluye,
Et s’est vestu de brouderie,
De soleil luyant, cler et beau.

Il n’y a beste ne oyseau,
Qu’en son jargon ne chante ou crie ;
Le temps a laissié son manteau.

Rivière, fontaine et ruisseau
Portent, en livree jolie,
Gouttes d’argent d’orfaverie,
Chascun s’abille de nouveau :
Le temps a laissié son manteau.

 

 

 

 

Charles d’Orléans

Afternoon on a hill

POSTED IN classic poetry March 23, 2012

hill















Afternoon on a hill

I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
And then start down!














Edna St. Vincent Millay

Happy birthday!

POSTED IN classic poetry January 17, 2012

 
Celebrate
Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see
tonight the snowy night of our first winter
comes back again in every road and tree –
that winter night of diamantine splendour.

Steam is pouring out of yellow stables,
the Moika river’s sinking under snow,
the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables,
and where we are heading – I don’t know.

There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.
The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art…..
Whose soul can compare with my soul,
if joy and fear are in my heart? –

And if your voice, a marvellous bird’s,
quivers at my shoulder, in the night,
and the snow shines with a silver light,
warmed by a sudden ray, by your words?

 

 

 
Anna Akhmatova

 

Happy birthday!

POSTED IN classic poetry January 17, 2012

 

Do not

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 sun 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 circling flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

 
 
 
 
 
Mary Elizabeth Frye
 

Intoarcere

POSTED IN classic poetry January 10, 2012

 
 
Intoarcere

Ceata, vânt, zapada si tacere,
Raza  lunii  fâlfâie  tacut.
Inima c-o molcuma durere
Îsi aduce-aminte de trecut.

Spulberat omatul se despica.
Pe-asa luna, eu pe-ascuns iesit,
Îndesându-mi cusma de pisica,
Casa parinteasca-am parasit.

Iaras sunt în locurile mele,
M-au uitat?  Sau minte ma mai tin?
Stau mahnit, ca un gonit de rele,
Reîntors la vechiul lui camin.

Cusma mi-o framânt fara cuvinte,
Sufletul prin gânduri mi-l desir,
De bunicii mei mi-aduc aminte
Si de-nzapezitul cimitir.

Toti vom fi acolo, poti sa sameni
Viata ta cu râs sau cu tumult
Pentru asta trag asa spre oameni
Si-i iubesc pe toti atât de mult.

Pentru asta inima mi-i moarta
Când privesc al anilor prapad
Vechea casa c-un dulau în poarta,
Parca stiu ca n-am s-o mai revad.

     

 

 

 

 

Sergei Esenin

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

POSTED IN classic poetry January 10, 2012

snow
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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.

 

 

 

 

Robert Frost

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