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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
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
Het Schrijverken
(Gyrinus Natans)
O Krinklende winklende waterding
met ‘t zwarte kabotseken aan,
wat zien ik toch geren uw kopke flink
al schrijven op ‘t waterke gaan!
Gij leeft en gij roert en gij loopt zo snel,
al zie ‘k u noch arrem noch been;
gij wendt en gij weet uwen weg zo wel,
al zie ‘k u geen ooge, geen één.
Wat waart, of wat zijt, of wat zult gij zijn?
Verklaar het en zeg het mij, toe!
Wat zijt gij toch, blinkende knopke fijn,
dat nimmer van schrijven zijt moe?
Gij loopt over ‘t spegelend water klaar,
en ‘t water niet meer en verroert
dan of het een gladdige windtje waar,
dat stille over ‘t waterke voert.
o Schrijverkes, schrijverkes, zegt mij dan, –
met twintigen zijt gij en meer,
en is er geen een die ‘t mij zeggen kan: –
Wat schrijft en wat schrijft gij zo zeer?
Gij schrijft, en ‘t en staat in het water niet,
gij schrijft, en ‘t is uit en ‘t is weg;
geen christen en weet er wat dat bediedt:
och, schrijverke, zeg het mij, zeg!
Zijn ‘t visselkes daar ge van schrijven moet?
Zijn ‘t kruidekes daar ge van schrijft?
Zijn ‘t keikes of bladtjes of blomkes zoet,
of ‘t water, waarop dat ge drijft?
Zijn ‘t vogelkes, kwietlende klachtgepiep,
of is ‘et het blauwe gewelf,
dat onder en boven u blinkt, zoo diep,
of is het u, schrijverken zelf?
En t krinklende winklende waterding,
met ‘t zwarte kapoteken aan,
het stelde en het rechtte zijne oorkes flink,
en ‘t bleef daar een stondeke staan:
“Wij schrijven,” zoo sprak het, “al krinklen af
het gene onze Meester, weleer,
ons makend en leerend, te schrijven gaf,
één lesse, niet min nochte meer;
wij schrijven, en kunt gij die lesse toch
niet lezen, en zijt gij zo bot?
Wij schrijven, herschrijven en schrijven nog,
den heiligen Name van God!”
Guido Gezelle
(1830 – 1899)
Het Schrijverken
Uit: Vlaemsche dichtoefeningen
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More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Gezelle, Guido, Guido Gezelle
An Opium Fantasy
Soft hangs the opiate in the brain,
And lulling soothes the edge of pain,
Till harshest sound, far off or near,
Sings floating in its mellow sphere.
What wakes me from my heavy dream?
Or am I still asleep?
Those long and soft vibrations seem
A slumberous charm to keep.
The graceful play, a moment stopt,
Distance again unrolls,
Like silver balls, that, softly dropt,
Ring into golden bowls.
I question of the poppies red,
The fairy flaunting band,
While I, a weed with drooping head,
Within their phalanx stand:
‘’Some airy one, with scarlet cap,
The name unfold to me
Of this new minstrel who can lap
Sleep in his melody!”
Bright grew their scarlet-kerchief’d heads.
As freshening winds had blown,
And from their gently-swaying beds
They sang in undertone:
“Oh he is but a little owl,
The smallest of his kin,
Who sits beneath the midnight’s cowl
And makes this airy din.”
“Deceitful tongues of fiery tints!
Far more than this ye know,
That he is your enchanted prince
Doom’d as an owl to go;–
“Nor his fond play for years hath stopt.
But nightly he unrolls
His silver balls, that, softly dropt,
Ring into golden bowls.’
Maria White Lowell
(1821 – 1853)
An Opium Fantasy
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, DRUGS & MEDICINE & LITERATURE, Maria White Lowell, Opium-Eaters
Aimer est un destin charmant
Aimer est un destin charmant ;
C’est un bonheur qui nous enivre,
Et qui produit l’enchantement.
Avoir aimé, c’est ne plus vivre,
Hélas ! c’est avoir acheté
Cette accablante vérité,
Que les serments sont un mensonge,
Que l’amour trompe tôt ou tard,
Que l’innocence n’est qu’un art,
Et que le bonheur n’est qu’un songe.
Évariste de Parny
(1753-1814)
Aimer est un destin charmant
Élégies (1784)
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive O-P, Archive O-P
Hochmut reitet zu Pferde
Hochmut reitet zu Pferde aus
und kehrt zu Fuß heim.
Ulrich von Hutten
Ritter und Dichter
(* 21.04.1488, † 29.08.1523)
Hochmut reitet zu Pferde
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More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Hutten, Ulrich von
Chiquita
BEAUTIFUL! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn’t her match in the county;
Is thar, old gal,—Chiquita, my darling, my beauty?
Feel of that neck, sir,—thar ‘s velvet! Whoa! Steady,—ah, will you, you vixen!
Whoa! I say. Jack, trot her out; let the gentleman look at her paces.
Morgan!—She ain’t nothin’ else, and I ‘ve got the papers to prove it.
Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won’t buy her.
Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne?
Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in ‘Frisco?
Hedn’t no savey, hed Briggs. Thar, Jack! that ‘ll do, quit that foolin’!
Nothin’ to what she kin do, when she ‘s got her work cut out before her.
Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys;
And ‘t ain’t ev’ry man as can ride as knows what a hoss has got in him.
Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan’s leaders?
Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water!
Well, it ain’t six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his nevey
Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all around us;
Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a bilin’,
Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river.
I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita;
And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from top of the cañon.
Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita
Buckled right down to her work, and, afore I could yell to her rider,
Took water jest at the ford; and there was the Jedge and me standing,
And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a-driftin’ to thunder!
Would ye b’lieve it? That night, that hoss, that ar’ filly, Chiquita,
Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping:
Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness,
Just as she swam the Fork,—that hoss, that ar’ filly, Chiquita.
That ‘s what I call a hoss! and—What did you say?—Oh! the nevey?
Drownded, I reckon,—leastways, he never kem back to deny it.
Ye see, the derned fool had no seat, ye could n’t have made him a rider;
And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses—well, hosses is hosses!
1872
Bret Harte
(1836-1902)
Chiquita
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Bret Harte, Western Fiction
For Deliverance From A Fever
When sorrows had begirt me round,
And pains within and out,
When in my flesh no part was found,
Then didst Thou rid me out.
My burning flesh in sweat did boil,
My aching head did break,
From side to side for ease I toil,
So faint I could not speak.
Beclouded was my soul with fear
Of Thy displeasure sore,
Nor could I read my evidence
Which oft I read before.
“Hide not Thy face from me!” I cried,
“From burnings keep my soul.
Thou know’st my heart, and hast me tried;
I on Thy mercies roll.”
“O heal my soul,” Thou know’st I said,
“Though flesh consume to nought,
What though in dust it shall be laid,
To glory t’ shall be brought.”
Thou heard’st, Thy rod Thou didst remove
And spared my body frail
Thou show’st to me Thy tender love,
My heart no more might quail.
O, praises to my mighty God,
Praise to my Lord, I say,
Who hath redeemed my soul from pit,
Praises to Him for aye.
Anne Bradstreet
(1612 – 1672)
For Deliverance From A Fever
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bradstreet, Anne
The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
The Eagle
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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Department of Birds of Prey, Department of Ravens & Crows, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
Break, Break, Break
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Break, Break, Break
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Aftermath
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807–1882)
Aftermath
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More in: Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth
Paris double galère
Depuis le Point-du-Jour jusqu’aux cèdres bibliques
Double galère assise au long du grand bazar,
Et du grand ministère, et du morne alcazar,
Parmi les deuils privés et les vertus publiques ;
Sous les quatre-vingts rois et les trois Républiques,
Et sous Napoléon, Alexandre et César,
Nos pères ont tenté le centuple hasard,
Fidèlement courbés sur tes rames obliques.
Et nous prenant leur place au même banc de chêne,
Nous ramerons des reins, de la nuque, de l’âme,
Pliés, cassés, meurtris, saignants sous notre chaîne ;
Et nous tiendrons le coup, rivés sur notre rame,
Forçats fils de forçats aux deux rives de Seine,
Galériens couchés aux pieds de Notre Dame.
Charles Péguy
(1873 – 1914)
Paris double galère
1913
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive O-P, Archive O-P, FDM in Paris, Peguy, Charles, WAR & PEACE
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