Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Rabindranath Tagore


Poems on Time

The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.

Time is a wealth of change,
but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth.

Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time
like dew on the tip of a leaf.

Rabindranath Tagore  (1861-1941)


Thursday, December 22, 2011

Haiku by Matsuo Basho

I would sleep,
borrowing the sleeve of the scarecrow.
Midnight frost. 

Karite nemu
kakashi no sode ya
yowa no shimo 

Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

foto: gb

Friday, December 16, 2011

Edgar Allan Poe

The Lake 
    In spring of youth it was my lot
       To haunt of the wide world a spot
       The which I could not love the less-
       So lovely was the loneliness
       Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
       And the tall pines that towered around.

       But when the Night had thrown her pall
       Upon that spot, as upon all,
       And the mystic wind went by
       Murmuring in melody-
       Then- ah then I would awake
       To the terror of the lone lake.

       Yet that terror was not fright,
       But a tremulous delight-
       A feeling not the jewelled mine
       Could teach or bribe me to define-
       Nor Love- although the Love were thine.

       Death was in that poisonous wave,
       And in its gulf a fitting grave
       For him who thence could solace bring
       To his lone imagining-
       Whose solitary soul could make
       An Eden of that dim lake.
Edgar Allan Poe (  1809-49)

Monday, December 12, 2011

Der er ingenting i verden så stille som sne...............

Skovridervej, Århus
A sweet little Danish song poem about snow from 1896 - it can be said so softly that you almost feel the snowflakes upon your face.

Listen to the song on Bambi:

Der er ingenting i verden så stille som sne,
når den sagte gennem luften daler,
dæmper dine skridt,
tysser, tysser blidt på de stemmer,
som for højlydt taler.

Der er ingenting i verden af en renhed som sne,
svanedun fra himlens hvide vinger.
På din hånd et fnug
er som tåredug.
Hvide tanker tyst i dans sig svinger.

Der er ingenting i verden, der kan mildne som sne.
Tys, du lytter, til det tavse klinger.
O, så fin en klang,
inderst inde i dit hjerte ringer.

Helge Rode, 1870-1937