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  1. New Cemetery new poems by Simon Armitage
  2. Week van het Verboden Boek: 20 tm 28 september 2025
  3. Adah Menken: Dying
  4. Bert Bevers: Homerusfeest, 1967
  5. Almost by Emily Dickinson
  6. Rudyard Kipling: The Press
  7. Bert Bevers: Verdwenen details
  8. Georg Trakl: Nähe des Todes
  9. Rouge et Noir by Emily Dickinson
  10. Invictus by William Ernest Henley
  11. Anthology of Black Humor by André Breton
  12. Gertrud Kolmar: Verlorenes Lied
  13. Georg Trakl: In Venedig
  14. Masaoka Shiki: Buddha-death
  15. Feeling All the Kills by Helen Calcutt
  16. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: Der Sänger
  17. Adah Menken: Aspiration
  18. Wild nights – Wild nights! by Emily Dickinson
  19. Adah Menken: A Memory
  20. Water by Ralph Waldo Emerson
  21. This Little Bag poem by Jane Austen
  22. Rachel Long: My Darling from the Lions
  23. Masaoka Shiki: Haiku
  24. 55th Poetry International Festival Rotterdam
  25. Gertrud Kolmar: Soldatenmädchen
  26. Neem ruim zei de zee. Gedichten van Sholeh Rezazadeh
  27. Adah Menken: Karazah To Karl
  28. The Emperor of Gladness, a novel by Ocean Vuong
  29. Georg Trakl: Sonja
  30. Bert Bevers: Achtergrondgeluk
  31. To See Yourself as You Vanish, poems by Andrea Werblin Reid
  32. I’m Nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson
  33. Vanessa Angélica Villarreal: Magical/Realism. Essays on Music, Memory, Fantasy and Borders
  34. Gertrud Kolmar: Der Brief
  35. Bert Bevers: De tuin is groener nog dan het woord

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Milton by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Milton
(Alcaics)

O mighty-mouth’d inventor of harmonies,
O skill’d to sing of Time or Eternity,
God-gifted organ-voice of England,
Milton, a name to resound for ages;
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,
Starr’d from Jehovah’s gorgeous armouries,
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean
Rings to the roar of an angel onset—
Me rather all that bowery loneliness,
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,
And bloom profuse and cedar arches
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,
Where some refulgent sunset of India
Streams o’er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,
And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods
Whisper in odorous heights of even.

Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Milton

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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Milton, John, Tennyson, Alfred Lord

Ulrich von Hutten: Den Geist?

Den Geist?

Den Geist?
Als ob es Weiber gäbe,
die ihn liebten.
Schöne Gestalt gefällt ihnen
und Reichtum.

 

Ulrich von Hutten
Ritter und Dichter
(* 21.04.1488, † 29.08.1523)
Den Geist?

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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Hutten, Ulrich von

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind by Stephen Crane

 

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Swift, blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Stephen Crane
(1871 – 1900)
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind
from: War is Kind

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More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Stephen Crane

Keith Douglas: Oxford

Oxford

At home as in no other city, here
summer holds her breath in a dark street
the trees nocturnally scented, lovers like moths
go by silently on the footpaths
and spirits of the young wait,
cannot be expelled, multiply each year.
In the meadows, walks, over the walls
the sunlight, far-travelled, tired and content,
warms the recollections of old men, touching
the hand of the scholar on his book, marching
through quadrangles and arches, at last spent
it leans through the stained windows and falls.

This then is the city of young men, of beginning,
ideas, trials, pardonable follies,
the lightness, seriousness and sorrow of youth.
And the city of the old, looking for truth,
browsing for years, the mind’s seven bellies
filled, become legendary figures, seeming
stones of the city, her venerable towers;
dignified, clothed by erudition and time.
For them it is not a city but an existence;
outside which everything is a pretence:
within, the leisurely immortals dream,
venerated and spared by the ominous hours.

Keith Douglas
(1920 – 1944)
Oxford

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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Douglas, Keith, WAR & PEACE

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