In this category:

Or see the index

All categories

  1. AFRICAN AMERICAN LITERATURE
  2. AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV
  3. DANCE & PERFORMANCE
  4. DICTIONARY OF IDEAS
  5. EXHIBITION – art, art history, photos, paintings, drawings, sculpture, ready-mades, video, performing arts, collages, gallery, etc.
  6. FICTION & NON-FICTION – books, booklovers, lit. history, biography, essays, translations, short stories, columns, literature: celtic, beat, travesty, war, dada & de stijl, drugs, dead poets
  7. FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor's choice, etc.
  8. LITERARY NEWS & EVENTS – art & literature news, in memoriam, festivals, city-poets, writers in Residence
  9. MONTAIGNE
  10. MUSEUM OF LOST CONCEPTS – invisible poetry, conceptual writing, spurensicherung
  11. MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY – department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra, spring, summer, autumn, winter
  12. MUSEUM OF PUBLIC PROTEST
  13. MUSIC
  14. PRESS & PUBLISHING
  15. REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS
  16. STORY ARCHIVE – olv van de veestraat, reading room, tales for fellow citizens
  17. STREET POETRY
  18. THEATRE
  19. TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE – early death: writers, poets & artists who died young
  20. ULTIMATE LIBRARY – danse macabre, ex libris, grimm & co, fairy tales, art of reading, tales of mystery & imagination, sherlock holmes theatre, erotic poetry, ideal women
  21. WAR & PEACE
  22. ·




  1. Subscribe to new material: RSS

MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY – department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra, spring, summer, autumn, winter

· Spring by Christina Georgina Rossetti · Willa Cather: I Sought the Wood in Winter · A Wintry Sonnet by Christina Georgina Rossetti · Les oies sauvages par Guy de Maupassant · Thomas Hardy: Snow in the Suburbs · Claude McKay: To Winter · Les quatre saisons – L’hiver par Charles Cros · Winter: My Secret by Christina Georgina Rossetti · freda kamphuis: gekantelde horizon · Il fait froid par Victor Hugo · D. H. Lawrence: Winter-Lull · Arno Holz: Auf einem Berg aus Zuckerkant

»» there is more...

Spring by Christina Georgina Rossetti

 

Spring

Frost-locked all the winter,
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
What shall make their sap ascend
That they may put forth shoots?
Tips of tender green,
Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
Telling of the hidden life
That breaks forth underneath,
Life nursed in its grave by Death.

Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
Drips the soaking rain,
By fits looks down the waking sun:
Young grass springs on the plain;
Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
Swollen with sap put forth their shoots;
Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
Birds sing and pair again.

There is no time like Spring,
When life’s alive in everything,
Before new nestlings sing,
Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
Along the trackless track–
God guides their wing,
He spreads their table that they nothing lack,–
Before the daisy grows a common flower,
Before the sun has power
To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.

There is no time like Spring,
Like Spring that passes by;
There is no life like Spring-life born to die,–
Piercing the sod,
Clothing the uncouth clod,
Hatched in the nest,
Fledged on the windy bough,
Strong on the wing:
There is no time like Spring that passes by,
Now newly born, and now
Hastening to die.

Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830 – 1894)
Spring

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: 4SEASONS#Spring, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Christina


Willa Cather: I Sought the Wood in Winter

 

I Sought the Wood in Winter

I sought the wood in summer
When every twig was green;
The rudest boughs were tender,
And buds were pink between.
Light-fingered aspens trembled
In fitful sun and shade,
And daffodils were golden
In every starry glade.
The brook sang like a robin—
My hand could check him where
The lissome maiden willows
Shook out their yellow hair.

“How frail a thing is Beauty,”
I said, “when every breath
She gives the vagrant summer
But swifter woos her death.
For this the star dust troubles,
For this have ages rolled:
To deck the wood for bridal
And slay her with the cold.”

I sought the wood in winter
When every leaf was dead;
Behind the wind-whipped branches
The winter sun set red.
The coldest star was rising
To greet that bitter air,
The oaks were writhen giants;
Nor bud nor bloom was there.
The birches, white and slender,
In deathless marble stood,
The brook, a white immortal,
Slept silent in the wood.

“How sure a thing is Beauty,”
I cried. “No bolt can slay,
No wave nor shock despoil her,
No ravishers dismay.
Her warriors are the angels
That cherish from afar,
Her warders people Heaven
And watch from every star.
The granite hills are slighter,
The sea more like to fail;
Behind the rose the planet,
The Law behind the veil.”

Willa Cather
(1873 – 1947)
I Sought the Wood in Winter

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive C-D, Archive C-D


A Wintry Sonnet by Christina Georgina Rossetti

 

A Wintry Sonnet

A robin said: The Spring will never come,
And I shall never care to build again.
A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,
My sap will never stir for sun or rain.
The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,
I neither care to wax nor care to wane.
The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,
Because earth’s rivers cannot fill the main.
When springtime came, red Robin built a nest,
And trilled a lover’s song in sheer delight.
Gray hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might
Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.
The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,
Dimpled his blue, – yet thirsted evermore.

Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830 – 1894)
A Wintry Sonnet

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Christina


Les oies sauvages par Guy de Maupassant

Les oies sauvages

Tout est muet, l’oiseau ne jette plus ses cris.
La morne plaine est blanche au loin sous le ciel gris.
Seuls, les grands corbeaux noirs, qui vont cherchant leurs proies,
Fouillent du bec la neige et tachent sa pâleur.

Voilà qu’à l’horizon s’élève une clameur ;
Elle approche, elle vient, c’est la tribu des oies.
Ainsi qu’un trait lancé, toutes, le cou tendu,
Allant toujours plus vite, en leur vol éperdu,
Passent, fouettant le vent de leur aile sifflante.

Le guide qui conduit ces pèlerins des airs
Delà les océans, les bois et les déserts,
Comme pour exciter leur allure trop lente,
De moment en moment jette son cri perçant.

Comme un double ruban la caravane ondoie,
Bruit étrangement, et par le ciel déploie
Son grand triangle ailé qui va s’élargissant.

Mais leurs frères captifs répandus dans la plaine,
Engourdis par le froid, cheminent gravement.
Un enfant en haillons en sifflant les promène,
Comme de lourds vaisseaux balancés lentement.
Ils entendent le cri de la tribu qui passe,
Ils érigent leur tête ; et regardant s’enfuir
Les libres voyageurs au travers de l’espace,
Les captifs tout à coup se lèvent pour partir.
Ils agitent en vain leurs ailes impuissantes,
Et, dressés sur leurs pieds, sentent confusément,
A cet appel errant se lever grandissantes
La liberté première au fond du coeur dormant,
La fièvre de l’espace et des tièdes rivages.
Dans les champs pleins de neige ils courent effarés,
Et jetant par le ciel des cris désespérés
Ils répondent longtemps à leurs frères sauvages.

Guy de Maupassant
(1850 – 1893)
Les oies sauvages

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive M-N, Archive M-N, Guy de Maupassant, Maupassant, Guy de, Maupassant, Guy de


Thomas Hardy: Snow in the Suburbs

 

Snow in the Suburbs

Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.

A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereon immediately
A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
Descends on him and showers his head and eye
And overturns him,
And near inurns him,
And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.

The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope,
A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
And we take him in.

Thomas Hardy
(1840 – 1928)
Snow in the Suburbs

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Hardy, Thomas


Claude McKay: To Winter

 

To Winter

Stay, season of calm love and soulful snows!
There is a subtle sweetness in the sun,
The ripples on the stream’s breast gaily run,
The wind more boisterously by me blows,
And each succeeding day now longer grows.
The birds a gladder music have begun,
The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun,
From maples’ topmost branch the brown twig throws.
I read these pregnant signs, know what they mean:
I know that thou art making ready to go.
Oh stay! I fled a land where fields are green
Always, and palms wave gently to and fro,
And winds are balmy, blue brooks ever sheen,
To ease my heart of its impassioned woe.

Claude McKay
(1889 – 1948)
To Winter

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: #Modern Poetry Archive, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive M-N, Archive M-N, Claude McKay


Les quatre saisons – L’hiver par Charles Cros

 

Les quatre saisons – L’hiver

C’est l’hiver. Le charbon de terre
Flambe en ma chambre solitaire.

La neige tombe sur les toits.
Blanche ! Oh, ses beaux seins blancs et froids!

Même sillage aux cheminées
Qu’en ses tresses disséminées.

Au bal, chacun jette, poli,
Les mots féroces de l’oubli,

L’eau qui chantait s’est prise en glace,
Amour, quel ennui te remplace!

Charles Cros
(1842 – 1888)
Les quatre saisons – L’hiver

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Cros, Charles


Winter: My Secret by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Winter: My Secret

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you’re too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret’s mine, and I won’t tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there’s none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
To-day’s a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling through my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good-will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.

Spring’s an expansive time: yet I don’t trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither through the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830 – 1894)
Winter: My Secret

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Christina


freda kamphuis: gekantelde horizon

 

gekantelde horizon

akkers
ver na tijd van oogst
vol zware, zwarte klei
liggen
volledig opengereten
van onder naar boven
tot aan horizon doorkliefd
ruw ontbloot, groots
in winterkaal
aan elementen
overgeleverd landschap
waar nu zelfs vogels
hard
en grimmig ogen, ons beloeren
solitaire bomen
grommen tegen harde wind
boeren, koeien
uit het beeld zijn weggekropen

dapper, onverstoorbaar
rijdt ons treintje
verder langs de open wond
immuun voor taferelen buiten
hangen bijna alle hoofden
richting lichtend, lokkend
landschap beneden,
smartphones

freda kamphuis
gekantelde horizon
wintergedicht

          https://fredaxblog.blogspot.com

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Freda Kamphuis, Kamphuis, Freda


Il fait froid par Victor Hugo

Il fait froid

L’hiver blanchit le dur chemin
Tes jours aux méchants sont en proie.
La bise mord ta douce main ;
La haine souffle sur ta joie.

La neige emplit le noir sillon.
La lumière est diminuée…
Ferme ta porte à l’aquilon !
Ferme ta vitre à la nuée !

Et puis laisse ton coeur ouvert !
Le coeur, c’est la sainte fenêtre.
Le soleil de brume est couvert ;
Mais Dieu va rayonner peut-être !

Doute du bonheur, fruit mortel ;
Doute de l’homme plein d’envie ;
Doute du prêtre et de l’autel ;
Mais crois à l’amour, ô ma vie !

Crois à l’amour, toujours entier,
Toujours brillant sous tous les voiles !
A l’amour, tison du foyer !
A l’amour, rayon des étoiles !

Aime, et ne désespère pas.
Dans ton âme, où parfois je passe,
Où mes vers chuchotent tout bas,
Laisse chaque chose à sa place.

La fidélité sans ennui,
La paix des vertus élevées,
Et l’indulgence pour autrui,
Eponge des fautes lavées.

Dans ta pensée où tout est beau,
Que rien ne tombe ou ne recule.
Fais de ton amour ton flambeau.
On s’éclaire de ce qui brûle.

A ces démons d’inimitié
Oppose ta douceur sereine,
Et reverse leur en pitié
Tout ce qu’ils t’ont vomi de haine.

La haine, c’est l’hiver du coeur.
Plains-les ! mais garde ton courage.
Garde ton sourire vainqueur ;
Bel arc-en-ciel, sors de l’orage !

Garde ton amour éternel.
L’hiver, l’astre éteint-il sa flamme ?
Dieu ne retire rien du ciel ;
Ne retire rien de ton âme !

Victor Hugo
(1802 – 1885)
Il fait froid

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Hugo, Victor, Victor Hugo


D. H. Lawrence: Winter-Lull

Winter-Lull

Because of the silent snow, we are all hushed
Into awe.
No sound of guns, nor overhead no rushed
Vibration to draw
Our attention out of the void wherein we are crushed.

A crow floats past on level wings
Noiselessly.
Uninterrupted silence swings
Invisibly, inaudibly
To and fro in our misgivings.

We do not look at each other, we hide
Our daunted eyes.
White earth, and ruins, ourselves, and nothing beside.
It all belies
Our existence; we wait, and are still denied.

We are folded together, men and the snowy ground
Into nullity.
There is silence, only the silence, never a sound
Nor a verity
To assist us; disastrously silence-bound!

D. H. Lawrence
(1885 –1930)
Winter-Lull

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Lawrence, D.H.


Arno Holz: Auf einem Berg aus Zuckerkant

Auf einem Berg aus Zuckerkant

Auf einem Berg aus Zuckerkant,
unter einem blühenden Machandelbaum,
blinkt mein Pfefferkuchenhäuschen.

Seine Fensterchen sind aus Goldpapier,
aus seinem Schornstein raucht Watte.

Im grünen Himmel, über mir,
rauscht die Weihnachtstanne.

In meinem See aus Staniol
spiegeln sich alle ihre Engel, alle ihre Lichter!

Die kleinen Kinder stehn rum
und staunen mich an.

Ich bin der Zwerg Turlitipu.

Mein dicker Bauch ist aus Traganth,
meine Beinchen Streichhölzer,
meine listigen Äugelchen
Korinthen.

Arno Holz

(1863 – 1929)
Auf einem Berg aus Zuckerkant
(aus: “Phantasus”)

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: #Experimental Poetry Archive, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Expressionism, Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories


Older Entries »

Thank you for reading Fleurs du Mal - magazine for art & literature