Pablo Neruda - BIRD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.

When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.

 

 

 

 

Pablo Neruda  (1914-1973)

A Dream within a Dream - Edgar Allan Poe

 

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?





Edgar Allan Poe  ( 1809-1849) 



 

Flowers, cold from the dew - Anna Akhmatova

 

















Flowers, cold from the dew,
And autumn's approaching breath,
I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids,
Which haven't faded yet.

In their nights, fragrantly resinous,
Entwined with delightful mystery,
They will breathe in her springlike
Extraordinary beauty.

But in a whirlwind of sound and fire,
From her shing head they will flutter
And fall—and before her
They will die, faintly fragrant still.

And, impelled by faithful longing,
My obedient gaze will feast upon them—
With a reverent hand,
Love will gather their rotting remains.





Anna Akhmatova 1899-1966

photo, November Rose, Coral Dawn: GB

Lord Byron - She Walks in Beauty

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She Walks in Beauty

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent! 



By Lord Byron (George Gordon) - 1788-1824







 photo Skagen:GB

H.C. Andersen - I Danmark er jeg født

I Danmark er jeg født, dér har jeg hjemme,
der har jeg rod, derfra min verden går.
Du danske sprog, du er min moders stemme,
så sødt velsignet du mit hjerte når.
Du danske, friske strand,
hvor oldtids kæmpegrave
stå mellem æblegård og humlehave.
Dig elsker jeg! - Dig elsker jeg!
Danmark, mit fædreland!

Hvor reder sommeren vel blomstersengen
mer rigt end her, ned til den åbne strand?
Hvor står fuldmånen over kløverengen
så dejligt som i bøgens fædreland?
Du danske, friske strand,
hvor Dannebrogen vajer, -
Gud gav os den, - Gud giv den bedste sejer!
Dig elsker jeg! - Dig elsker jeg!
Danmark, mit fædreland!

Engang du herre var i hele Norden,
bød over England, - nu du kaldes svag,
et lille land, og dog så vidt om jorden
end høres danskens sang og mejselslag.
Du danske, friske strand,
plovjernet guldhorn finder,
Gud giv dig fremtid. som han gav dig minder!
Dig elsker jeg! - Dig elsker jeg!
Danmark, mit fædreland!

Du land, hvor jeg blev født, hvor jeg har hjemme,
hvor jeg har rod, hvorfra min verden går,
hvor sproget er min moders bløde stemme
og som en sød musik mit hjerte når.
Du danske, friske strand
med vilde svaners rede,
I grønne øer, mit hjertes hjem hernede!
Dig elsker jeg! - Dig elsker jeg!
Danmark, mit fædreland!



photo:GB

William Butler Yeats - Those Dancing Days...

 

Those dancing days are gone,
All that silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone,
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup.
The moon in a silver bag.

Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter if the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping like a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup.
The moon in a silver bag.

I thought it out this very day.
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
May sing, and sing until he drop,
Whether to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag. 

 William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

 

  photo GB: Ebeltoft Glass Museum