Rabindranath Tagore

photo: gb

Lotus

On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,

and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.

Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my

dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.

That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to

me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.

I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this

perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.

GITANJALI "Song Offerings" Translations made by the author from the original Bengali.

Rabindranath Tagore, India: Poet, Philosopher, Musician, Writer, Educator, Nobel Laureate (1861-1941)

Russian Poetry

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN (1799-1837)
Winter morning Cold frost and sunshine: day of wonder! But you, my friend, are still in slumber - Wake up, my beauty, time belies: You dormant eyes, I beg you, broaden Toward the northerly Aurora, As though a northern star arise! Recall last night, the snow was whirling, Across the sky, the haze was twirling, The moon, as though a pale dye, Emerged with yellow through faint clouds. And there you sat, immersed in doubts, And now, - just take a look outside: The snow below the bluish skies, Like a majestic carpet lies, And in the light of day it shimmers. The woods are dusky. Through the frost The greenish fir-trees are exposed; And under ice, a river glitters. The room is lit with amber light. And bursting, popping in delight Hot stove still rattles in a fray. While it is nice to hear its clatter, Perhaps, we should command to saddle A fervent mare into the sleight? And sliding on the morning snow Dear friend, we'll let our worries go, And with the zealous mare we'll flee. We'll visit empty ranges, thence, The woods, which used to be so dense And then the shore, so dear to me. photo:gb

Emily Dickinson

THE DAISY FOLLOWS SOFT THE SUN

HE daisy follows soft the sun,

And when his golden walk is done,

Sits shyly at his feet.

He, waking, finds the flower near.

"Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?"

"Because, sir, love is sweet!"







We are the flower, Thou the sun!

Forgive us, if as days decline,

We nearer steal to Thee,--

Enamoured of the parting west,

The peace, the flight, the amethyst,

Night's possibility!




by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

photo: gb

Shakespeare in Winter

Spring and Winter ii

When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!--a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doe blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!--a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

William Shakespeare

photo:gb

Nature - A Butterfly

FROM cocoon forth a butterfly
As lady from her door
Emerged—a summer afternoon—
Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous enterprise
The clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seen
Contracting in a field
Where men made hay, then struggling hard
With an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,
To Nowhere seemed to go
In purposeless circumference,
As ’t were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
This audience of idleness
Disdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and butterfly,
Extinguished in its sea. Emily Dickinson Nature V

Christopher Marlowe

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe. 1564 - 1593.

photo:gb

The Rose

The lily has a smooth stalk,
Will never hurt your hand;
But the rose upon her brier
Is lady of the land.

There's sweetness in an apple tree,
And profit in the corn;
But lady of all beauty
Is a rose upon a thorn.

When with moss and honey
She tips her bending brier,
And half unfolds her glowing heart,
She sets the world on fire.

~Christina Rosseti

photo Boller slot:grethe bachmann