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# Classic Poetry Archive

· The Foundling by Josephine Preston Peabody · Charlotte Perkins Gilman: Girls of to-day · Marc-Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant: La pluie · Bess Brenck-Kalischer: Das Auge flog voran · Cäsar Flaischlen: Ganz still zuweilen… · Louise Aston: Die wilde Rose · Marc-Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant: Plainte sur la mort de Sylvie · Charlotte Perkins Gilman: Boys will be boys · Marc-Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant: La débauche · Charlotte Perkins Gilman: “We as women” · Cäsar Flaischlen: “Hab’ Sonne im Herzen” · Charlotte Perkins Gilman: Females

»» there is more...

The Foundling by Josephine Preston Peabody

 

The Foundling

Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day;
And I am wearied. And the day is done.
Now, while the wild brooks run
Soft by the furrows–fading, gold to gray,
Their laughters turned to musing–ah, let me
Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee,
Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.

The birds fly low. Gulls, starlings, hoverers,
Along the meadows and the paling foam,
All wings of thine that roam
Fly down, fly down. One reedy murmur blurs
The silence of the earth; and from the warm
Face of the field the upward savors swarm
Into the darkness. And the herds are home.

All they are stalled and folded for their rest,
The creatures: cloud-fleece young that leap and veer;
Mad-mane and gentle ear;
And breath of loving-kindness. And that best,–
O shaggy house-mate, watching me from far,
With human-aching heart, as I a star–
Tempest of plum’d joys, just to be near!

So close, so like, so dear; and whom I love
More than thou lovest them, or lovest me.
So beautiful to see,
Ah, and to touch! When those far lights above
Scorch me with farness–lights that call and call
To the far heart, and answer not at all;
Save that they will not let the darkness be.

And what am I? That I alone of these
Make me most glad at noon? That I should mark
The after-glow go dark?
This hour to sing–but never have–heart’s-ease!
That when the sorrowing winds fly low, and croon
Outside our happy windows their old rune,
Beautiful Mother, I must wake, and hark?

Who am I? Why for me this iron Must?
Burden the moon-white ox would never bear;
Load that he cannot share,
He, thine imperial hostage of the dust.
Else should I look to see the god’s surprise
Flow from his great unscornful, lovely eyes–
The ox thou gavest to partake my care.

Yea, all they bear their yoke of sun-filled hours.
I, lord at noon, at nightfall no more free,
Take on more heavily
The yoke of hid, intolerable Powers.
–Then pushes here, in my forgetful hand,
This near one’s breathless plea to understand.
Starward I look; he, even so, at me!

And she who shines within my house, my sight
Of the heart’s eyes, my hearth-glow, and my rain,
My singing’s one refrain–
Are there for her no tidings from the height?
For her, my solace, likewise lost and far,
Islanded with me here, on this lone star
Washed by the ceaseless tides of dark and light.

What shall it profit, that I built for her
A little wayside shelter from the stark
Sky that we hear, and mark?
Lo, in her eyes all dreams that ever were!
And cheek-to-cheek with me she shares the quest,
Her heart, as mine for her, sole tented rest
From light to light of day; from dark–till Dark.

Yea, but for her, how should I greatly care
Whither and whence? But that the dark should blast
Our bright! To hold her fast,–
Yet feel this dread creep gray along the air.
To know I cannot hold her so my own,
But under surge of joy, the surges moan
That threaten us with parting at the last!

Beautiful Mother, I am not thy son.
I know from echoes far behind the sky.
I know; I know not why.
Even from thy golden, wide oblivion:
Thy careless leave to help thy harvesting,
Thy leave to work a little, live, and sing;
Thy leave to suffer–yea, to sing and die,
Beautiful Mother! …
Ah, Whose child am I?

Love sang to me. And I went down the stair,
And out into the darkness and the dew;
And bowed myself unto the little grass,
And the blind herbs, and the unshapen dust
Of earth without a face. So let me be.

For as I hear, the singing makes of me
My own desire, and momently I grow.
Yea, all the while with hands of melody,
The singing makes me, out of what I was,
Even as a potter shaping Eden clay.

Ever Love sings, and saith in words that sing,
‘Beloved, thus art thou; and even so
Lovely art thou, Beloved!’–Even so,
As the Sea weaves her path before the light,
I hear, I hear, and I am glorified.

Love sang to me, and I am glorified
Because of some commandment in the stars.
And I shall grow in favour and in shining,
Till at the last I am all-beautiful;
Beautiful, for the day Love sings no more.

Josephine Preston Peabody
(1874 – 1922)
The Foundling

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive O-P, Archive O-P


Charlotte Perkins Gilman: Girls of to-day

Girls of to-day

Girls of today! Give ear!
Never since time began
Has come to the race of man
A year, a day, an hour,
So full of promise and power
As the time that now is here!

Never in all the lands
Was there a power so great,
To move the wheels of state,
To lift up body and mind,
To waken the deaf and blind,
As the power that is in your hands!

Here at the gates of gold
You stand in the pride of youth,
Strong in courage and truth,
Stirred by a force kept back
Through centuries long and black,
Armed with a power threefold!

First: You are makers of men!
Then Be the things you preach!
Let your own greatness teach!
When Mothers like this you see
Men will be strong and free–
Then, and not till then!

Second: Since Adam fell,
Have you not heard it said
That men by women are led?
True is the saying–true!
See to it what you do!
See that you lead them well.

Third: You have work of your own!
Maid and mother and wife,
Look in the face of life!
There are duties you owe the race!
Outside your dwelling-place
There is work for you alone!

Maid and mother and wife,
See your own work be done!
Be worthy a noble son!
Help man in the upward way!
Truly, a girl today
Is the strongest thing in life!

Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(1860-1935)
Girls of to-day
Suffrage Songs and Verses

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Feminism


Marc-Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant: La pluie

La pluie

Enfin la haute Providence
Qui gouverne à son gré le temps,
Travaillant à notre abondance
Rendra les laboureurs contents :
Sus ! que tout le monde s’enfuie,
Je vois de loin venir la pluie,
Le ciel est noir de bout en bout
Et ses influences bénignes
Vont tant verser d’eau sur les vignes
Que nous n’en boirons point du tout.

L’ardeur grillait toutes les herbes,
Et tel les voyait consumer
Qui n’eût pas cru tirer des gerbes
Assez de grain pour en semer.
Bref, la terre, en cette contrée,
D’une béante soif outrée,
N’avait souffert rien de pareil
Depuis qu’une audace trop vaine
Porta le beau fils de Climène
Sur le brillant char du soleil.

Mais les dieux mettant bas les armes
Que leur font prendre nos péchés,
Veulent témoigner par des larmes
Que les nôtres les ont touchés :
Déjà, l’humide Iris étale
Son beau demi-cercle d’opale
Dedans le vague champ de l’air
Et, pressant mainte épaisse nue,
Fait obscurcir à sa venue
Le temps qui se montrait si clair.

Ces pauvres sources épuisées
Qui ne coulaient plus qu’en langueur,
En tressaillent comme fusées
D’une incomparable vigueur ;
je pense, à les voir si hautaines,
Que les eaux de mille fontaines
Ont ramassé dedans ces lieux
Ce qui leur restait de puissance
Pour aller par reconnaissance
Au devant de celles des cieux.

Payen, sauvons-nous dans ta salle
Voilà le nuage crevé ;
O, comme à grands flots il dévale !
Déjà, tout en est abreuvé.
Mon Dieu ! Quel plaisir incroyable !
Que l’eau fait un bruit agréable
Tombant sur ces feuillages verts !
Et que je charmerais l’oreille
Si cette douceur non pareille
Se pouvait trouver en mes vers !

Çà, que l’on m’apporte une coupe :
Du vin frais, il en est saison ;
Puisque Cérès boit à la troupe,
Il faut bien lui faire raison !
Mais non pas avec ce breuvage
De qui le goût fade et sauvage
Ne saurait plaire qu’aux sablons
Ou à quelque jeune pucelle
Qui ne but que de l’eau comme elle
Afin d’avoir les cheveux blonds.

Regarde à l’abri de ces saules
Un pèlerin qui se tapit :
Le dégoût perce ses épaules
Mais il n’en a point de dépit.
Contemple un peu dans cette allée
Thibaut à la mine hâlée
Marcher froidement par compas ;
Le bonhomme sent telle joie
Qu’encore que cette eau le noie,
Si ne s’en ôtera-t-il pas.

Vois déjà dans cette campagne
Ces vignerons tout transportés
Sauter comme genets d’Espagne
Se démenant de tous côtés ;
Entends d’ici tes domestiques
Entrecouper leurs chants rustiques
D’un fréquent battement de mains ;
Tous les coeurs s’en épanouissent
Et les bêtes s’en réjouissent
Aussi bien comme les humains.

Marc-Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant
(1594 – 1661)
La pluie

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Archive S-T, Archive S-T


Bess Brenck-Kalischer: Das Auge flog voran

 

Das Auge flog voran

Das Auge flog voran.
Im Stern verstrickt der Fuß.
Die hingerissene Sonne
Sinkt im Spiegel.
Um jede Wassermühle
Blutet Licht.

Bess Brenck-Kalischer
(Betty Levy, 1878-1933)
Das Auge flog voran

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive A-B, Archive A-B


Cäsar Flaischlen: Ganz still zuweilen…

 

Ganz still zuweilen . . .

Ganz still zuweilen wie ein Traum
klingt in dir auf ein fernes Lied…
Du weißt nicht, wie es plötzlich kam,
du weißt nicht, was es von dir will…
und wie ein Traum ganz leis und still
verklingt es wieder, wie es kam…

Wie plötzlich mitten im Gewühl
der Straße, mitten oft im Winter
ein Hauch von Rosen dich umweht,
wie oder dann und wann ein Bild
aus längst vergessenen Kindertagen
mit fragenden Augen vor dir steht…

Ganz still und leise, wie ein Traum…
Du weißt nicht, wie es plötzlich kam,
du weißt nicht, was es von dir will,
und wie ein Traum ganz leis und still
verblaßt es wieder, wie es kam.

Cäsar Flaischlen
(1864-1920)
Ganz still zuweilen . . .

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive E-F, Archive E-F


Louise Aston: Die wilde Rose

Die wilde Rose

Da droben auf einsamer Höhe
Die wilde Rose blüht,
Und wer sie von Ferne gesehen,
In heißer Sehnsucht erglüht.

Zu ihr über Felsen und Klüfte
Ein kühner Jäger klimmt.
Schon ist er in nächster Nähe –
Das Auge in Thränen ihm schwimmt.

Er will sie erfassen und pflücken.
Da strauchelt jäh sein Fuß;
Des Abgrunds finstere Tiefe
Empfängt ihn mit kaltem Kuß.

Da droben auf einsamer Höhe
Die wilde Rose blüht,
Und wer sie von Ferne gesehen.
In heißer Sehnsucht erglüht. –

Louise Aston
(1814-1871)
Die wilde Rose

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Feminism


Marc-Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant: Plainte sur la mort de Sylvie

  

Plainte sur la mort de Sylvie

Ruisseau qui cours après toi-même
Et qui te fuis toi-même aussi,
Arrête un peu ton onde ici
Pour écouter mon deuil extrême.
Puis, quand tu l’auras su, va-t’en dire à la mer
Qu’elle n’a rien de plus amer.

Raconte-lui comme Sylvie,
Qui seule gouverne mon sort,
A reçu le coup de la mort
Au plus bel âge de la vie,
Et que cet accident triomphe en même jour
De toutes les forces d’Amour.

Las ! je n’en puis dire autre chose,
Mes soupirs tranchent mon discours.
Adieu, ruisseau, reprends ton cours
Qui, non plus que moi, se repose ;
Que si, par mes regrets, j’ai bien pu t’arrêter,
Voici des pleurs pour te hâter.

Marc-Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant
(1594 – 1661)
Plainte sur la mort de Sylvie

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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Archive S-T, Archive S-T


Charlotte Perkins Gilman: Boys will be boys

Boys will be boys

“Boys will be boys,” and boys have had their day;
Boy-mischief and boy-carelessness and noise
Extenuated all, allowed, excused and smoothed away,
Each duty missed, each damaging wild act,
By this meek statement of unquestioned fact–
Boys will be boys!

Now, “women will be women.” Mark the change;
Calm motherhood in place of boisterous youth;
No warfare now; to manage and arrange,
To nurture with wise care, is woman’s way,
In peace and fruitful industry her sway,
In love and truth.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(1860-1935)
Boys will be boys
Suffrage Songs and Verses

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Feminism


Marc-Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant: La débauche

 

La débauche
(extrait)

Bacchus ! qui vois notre débauche,
Par ton saint portrait que j’ébauche
En m’enluminant le museau
De ce trait que je bois sans eau ;
Par ta couronne de lierre,
Par la splendeur de ce grand verre,
Par ton thyrse tant redouté,
Par ton éternelle santé,
Par l’honneur de tes belles fêtes,
Par tes innombrables conquêtes,
Par les coups non donnés, mais bus,
Par tes glorieux attributs,
Par les hurlements des Ménades,
Par le haut goût des carbonnades,
Par tes couleurs blanc et clairet,
Par le plus fameux cabaret,
Par le doux chant de tes orgies,
Par l’éclat des trognes rougies,
Par table ouverte à tout venant,
Par les fins mors de ta cabale,
Par le tambour et la cymbale,
Par tes cloches qui sont des pots,
Par tes soupirs qui sont des rots,
Par tes hauts et sacrés mystères,
Par tes furieuses panthères,
Par ce lieu si frais et si doux,
Par ton bouc, paillard comme nous,
Par ta grosse garce Ariane,
Par le vieillard monté sur l’âne,
Par les satyres, tes cousins,
Par la fleur des plus beaux raisins,
Par ces bisques si renommées,
Par ces langues de boeuf fumées,
Par ce tabac, ton seul encens,
Par tous les plaisirs innocents,
Par ce jambon couvert d’épice,
Par ce long pendant de saucisse,
Par la majesté de ce broc,
Par masse, tope, cric et croc,
Par cette olive que je mange,
Par ce gai passeport d’orange,
Par ce vieux fromage pourri,
Bref par Gillot, ton favori,
Reçois-nous dans l’heureuse troupe,
Des francs chevaliers de la coupe,
Et, pour te montrer tout divin,
Ne la laisse jamais sans vin.

Marc-Antoine Girard de Saint-Amant
(1594 – 1661)
La débauche
(extrait)

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Archive S-T, Archive S-T


Charlotte Perkins Gilman: “We as women”

 

“We as women”

There’s a cry in the air about us–
We hear it before, behind–
Of the way in which “We, as women,”
Are going to lift mankind!

With our white frocks starched and ruffled,
And our soft hair brushed and curled–
Hats off! for “We, as women,”
Are coming to save the world.

Fair sisters, listen one moment–
And perhaps you’ll pause for ten:
The business of women as women
Is only with men as men!

What we do, “We, as women,”
We have done all through our life;
The work that is ours as women
Is the work of mother and wife.

But to elevate public opinion,
And to lift up erring man,
Is the work of the Human Being;
Let us do it–if we can.

But wait, warm-hearted sisters–
Not quite so fast, so far.
Tell me how we are going to lift a thing
Any higher than we are!

We are going to “purify politics,”
And to “elevate the press.”
We enter the foul paths of the world
To sweeten and cleanse and bless.

To hear the high things we are going to do,
And the horrors of man we tell,
One would think, “We, as women,” were angels,
And our brothers were fiends of hell.

We, that were born of one mother,
And reared in the self-same place,
In the school and the church together,
We of one blood, one race!

Now then, all forward together!
But remember, every one,
That ’tis not by feminine innocence
The work of the world is done.

The world needs strength and courage,
And wisdom to help and feed–
When, “We, as women” bring these to man,
We shall lift the world indeed.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(1860-1935)
“We as women”
Suffrage Songs and Verses

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Feminism


Cäsar Flaischlen: “Hab’ Sonne im Herzen”

 

“Hab’ Sonne im Herzen”

Hab’ Sonne im Herzen, obs stürmt oder schneit
Ob der Himmel voll Wolken, die Erd voller Streit.
Hab’ Sonne im Herzen, dann komme was mag,
das leuchtet voll Licht dir den dunkelsten Tag.

Hab’ ein Lied auf den Lippen mit fröhlichem Klang
und macht auch des Alltags Gedränge dich bang!
Hab’ ein Lied auf den Lippen, dann komme was mag,
das hilft dir verwinden den einsamsten Tag!

Hab’ ein Wort auch für andre in Sorg’ und in Pein,
und sag, was dich selber so frohgemut lässt sein:
Hab’ ein Lied auf den Lippen, verlier nie den Mut,
hab’ Sonne im Herzen, und alles wird gut.

Cäsar Flaischlen
(1864-1920)
“Hab’ Sonne im Herzen”

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive E-F, Archive E-F


Charlotte Perkins Gilman: Females

Females

The female fox she is a fox;
The female whale a whale;
The female eagle holds her place
As representative of race
As truly as the male.

The mother hen doth scratch for her chicks,
And scratch for herself beside;
The mother cow doth nurse her calf,
Yet fares as well as her other half
In the pasture free and wide.

The female bird doth soar in air;
The female fish doth swim;
The fleet-foot mare upon the course
Doth hold her own with the flying horse–
Yea and she beateth him!

One female in the world we find
Telling a different tale.
It is the female of our race,
Who holds a parasitic place
Dependent on the male.

Not so, saith she, ye slander me!
No parasite am I.
I earn my living as a wife;
My children take my very life;
Why should I share in human strife,
To plant and build and buy?

The human race holds highest place
In all the world so wide,
Yet these inferior females wive,
And raise their little ones alive,
And feed themselves beside.

The race is higher than the sex,
Though sex be fair and good;
A Human Creature is your state,
And to be human is more great
Than even womanhood!

The female fox she is a fox;
The female whale a whale;
The female eagle holds her place
As representative of race
As truly as the male.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(1860-1935)
Females
Suffrage Songs and Verses

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Feminism


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