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Stefan Zweig
(1881-1942)
Hand in Hand
Laß Deine Hand in meinen Händen,
Dort ruht sie weich und mild und gut,
Und leise rinnt ein Gabenspenden
Von meiner Glut in Deine Glut,
Bis sie nicht von einander scheiden
Was jede noch ihr eigen nennt.
Und dann verzehrend in den beiden
Ein einziger Gedanke brennt.
Stefan Zweig poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Stefan Zweig, Zweig, Stefan
Stefan Zweig
(1881-1942)
Meine Liebe
Ich hasse Frauen mit dem satten Lächeln,
Das nur Erfahrung und Gewohnheit gibt,
Die prahlerisch gereifte Reize fächeln. –
Ich hasse den, der solche Schönheit liebt.
Aus stillen Augen will ich Funken schlagen
Bis sie in heißer Liebeslust erglühn,
Will blassen Mädchen meine Träume sagen,
Durch deren Parke ihre Bilder ziehn.
Will Glieder fühlen, die es nicht verspürten,
Daß sie dem Leben schon herangereift,
Die Lippen schmiegen auf die unberührten,
Die nie ein tatgewordner Wunsch gestreift.
Ich will nur elfenzarte Finger küssen,
Durch die das Blut mit blassem Leuchten rinnt,
Ich liebe Mädchen, die nicht Wahrheit wissen,
Ein armes, stilles lebensfremdes Kind.
Doch dieser weiß ich tausend Seligkeiten
Aus unverbrauchter Jugend heißer Glut,
Um ihre Glieder will ich Königspurpur breiten
Wenn sie im Banne meiner Arme ruht.
Sie will ich dann das Glück der Liebe lehren,
Das weit hinauf in Himmelsfernen trägt,
Sowie von opferflammenden Altären
Die Lohe jauchzend zu den Sternen schlägt …
Stefan Zweig poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Stefan Zweig, Zweig, Stefan
William Butler Yeats
(1865-1939)
A Coat
I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But he fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.
Who comes at need, although not now as once
A clear articulation in the air,
But inwardly, surmise companions
Beyond the fling of the dull ass’s hoof
— Ben Jonson’s phrase — and find when June is come
At Kyle-na-no under that ancient roof
A sterner conscience and a friendlier home,
I can forgive even that wrong of wrongs,
Those undreamt accidents that have made me
— Seeing that Fame has perished this long while.
Being but a part of ancient ceremony —
Notorious, till all my priceless things
Are but a post the passing dogs defile.
William Butler Yeats poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
William Butler Yeats
(1865 – 1939)
The Heart of the Woman
O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.
O what to me my mother’s care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.
O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.
William Butler Yeats poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
William Butler Yeats
(1865-1939)
Two Songs Rewritten For The Tune’s Sake
I
My Paistin Finn is my sole desire,
And I am shrunken to skin and bone,
For all my heart has had for its hire
Is what I can whistle alone and alone.
Oro, oro.!
Tomorrow night I will break down the door.
What is the good of a man and he
Alone and alone, with a speckled shin?
I would that I drank with my love on my knee
Between two barrels at the inn.
Oro, oro.!
To-morrow night I will break down the door.
Alone and alone nine nights I lay
Between two bushes under the rain;
I thought to have whistled her down that
I whistled and whistled and whistled in vain.
Oro, oro!
To-morrow night I will break down the door.
II
I would that I were an old beggar
Rolling a blind pearl eye,
For he cannot see my lady
Go gallivanting by;
A dreary, dreepy beggar
Without a friend on the earth
But a thieving rascally cur —
O a beggar blind from his birth;
Or anything else but a rhymer
Without a thing in his head
But rhymes for a beautiful lady,
He rhyming alone in his bed.
William Butler Yeats poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
William Butler Yeats
(1865-1939)
PRESENCES
This night has been so strange that it seemed
As if the hair stood up on my head.
From going-down of the sun I have dreamed
That women laughing, or timid or wild,
In rustle of lace or silken stuff,
Climbed up my creaking stair. They had read
All I had rhymed of that monstrous thing
Returned and yet unrequited love.
They stood in the door and stood between
My great wood lectern and the fire
Till I could hear their hearts beating:
One is a harlot, and one a child
That never looked upon man with desire.
And one, it may be, a queen.
William Butler Yeats poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
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William Butler Yeats
(1865-1939)
Why Should Not Old Men Be Mad?
Why should not old men be mad?
Some have known a likely lad
That had a sound fly-fisher’s wrist
Turn to a drunken journalist;
A girl that knew all Dante once
Live to bear children to a dunce;
A Helen of social welfare dream,
Climb on a wagonette to scream.
Some think it a matter of course that chance
Should starve good men and bad advance,
That if their neighbours figured plain,
As though upon a lighted screen,
No single story would they find
Of an unbroken happy mind,
A finish worthy of the start.
Young men know nothing of this sort,
Observant old men know it well;
And when they know what old books tell
And that no better can be had,
Know why an old man should be mad.
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W.B. Yeats poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
William Butler Yeats
(1865 – 1939)
The Heart of the Woman
O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.
O what to me my mother’s care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.
O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.
William Butler Yeats poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
William Butler Yeats
(1865-1939)
He Mourns For The Change That Has Come
Upon Him And His Beloved,
And Longs For The End Of The World
Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns?
I have been changed to a hound with one red ear;
I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,
For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear
Under my feet that they follow you night and day.
A man with a hazel wand came without sound;
He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way;
And now my calling is but the calling of a hound;
And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by.
I would that the Boar without bristles had come from the West
And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky
And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest.
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W.B. Yeats poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
W i l l i a m B u t l e r Y e a t s
(1865-1939)
May God be praised for woman
T h r e e P o e m s
Politics
How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here’s a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there’s a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war’s alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!
To A Young Girl
My dear, my dear, I know
More than another
What makes your heart beat so;
Not even your own mother
Can know it as I know,
Who broke my heart for her
When the wild thought,
That she denies
And has forgot,
Set all her blood astir
And glittered in her eyes.
On Woman
May God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.
Though pedantry denies,
It’s plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.
Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
God grant me — no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,
But when, if the tale’s true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again —
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;
And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.
FLEURSDUMAL.NL MAGAZINE
MAGAZINE FOR ART & LITERATURE
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Richard Zoozmann
(1863-1934)
Der Tod und das Mädchen
Ich habe mich in deinen Reiz verliebt,
Der ohne Gleichnis ist und ohne Namen:
Welch schönes Haar! das, wie ein goldner Rahmen
Ein Heil’genbild, dein Angesicht umgibt.
Ich liebe dich. Vom ersten Tage an,
Der dich gesandt in dieses dunkle Leben,
Ließ ich dich meinen Flügelschlag umweben,
Bis ich dem Himmel heute dich gewann.
Ich bin der Tod. Erschrecke nicht: ich bin
Ein sanfter Engel, der dich sanft geleitet
Und unter dich die Schwingen hält gebreitet;
So trag’ ich dich zu Gottes Himmel hin.
Hier unten warst du eine Blume nur;
Ein Lenz schuf dich, ein Herbst läßt dich vergehen.
Zu ew’ger Blüte wirst du auferstehen
In Gottes winterloser Gartenflur.
Richard Zoozmann poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z
W. B. Yeats
(1865-1939)
For Anne Gregory
“Never shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.”
“But I can get a hair-dye
And set such colour there,
Brown, or black, or carrot,
That young men in despair
May love me for myself alone
And not my yellow hair.”
“I heard an old religious man
But yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.”
W. B. Yeats poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
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