To Mrs. Macmarland
IN Schnee der Alpen - so it runs
To those divine accords - and here
We dwell in Alpine snows and suns,
A motley crew, for half the year:
A motley crew, we dwell to taste -
A shivering band in hope and fear -
That sun upon the snowy waste,
That Alpine ether cold and clear.
Up from the laboured plains, and up
From low sea-levels, we arise
To drink of that diviner cup
The rarer air, the clearer skies;
For, as the great, old, godly King
From mankind's turbid valley cries,
So all we mountain-lovers sing:
I to the hills will lift mine eyes.
The bells that ring, the peaks that climb,
The frozen snow's unbroken curd
Might yet revindicate in rhyme
The pauseless stream, the absent bird.
In vain - for to the deeps of life
You, lady, you my heart have stirred;
And since you say you love my life,
Be sure I love you for the word.
Of kindness, here I nothing say -
Such loveless kindnesses there are
In that grimacing, common way,
That old, unhonoured social war.
Love but my dog and love my love,
Adore with me a common star -
I value not the rest above
The ashes of a bad cigar.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Social Netowrking Of Robots
end of world war
end of world war 11
end of world scenarios
end of world thursday prophet
end of world wa rtwo
end of world war 2 france
end of world video
end of world war 1 effects
end of world vision
end of world songs
end of world war 2
end of world war 1
end of world wallpapers
end of world scenerio
end of world time clock
end of wortd
end of world wtf mate youtube
end of world west america
end of world war ii
end of world war iii
end of wrestling match signal
end of worlds
end of worldwar 2
end of world war i
end of world war two
end of wrestling match indicator
end of world war 2 wikipedia
end of world war 21945
end of world war one
end of world wite web
end of worled war 2
end of world wide ii
end of world war 2 info
end of world war two date
end of wow
end of ww 2
end of ww2
end of ww1 treaty of versailles
end of ww1 treaty
end of ww ii
end of ww2 in czechoslovakia
end of ww2 date
end of ww1 ghost photos
end of ww1 treaty of vers
end of ww 1
end of ww2 for japanese americans
end of ww-ii
end of ww2 battleship
end of wrold war 2
end of ww11
[...] Read more
poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Dot Leedle Boy
Ot's a leedle Gristmas story
Dot I told der leedle folks--
Und I vant you stop dot laughin'
Und grackin' funny jokes!--
So help me Peter-Moses!
Ot's no time for monkey-shine,
Ober I vast told you somedings
Of dot leedle boy of mine!
Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder,
Ven der snow vas all about--
Dot you have to chop der hatchet
Eef you got der sauerkraut!
Und der cheekens on der hind leg
Vas standin' in der shine
Der sun shmile out dot morning
On dot leedle boy of mine.
He vas yoost a leedle baby
Not bigger as a doll
Dot time I got acquaintet--
Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!--
I grackys! dot's der moosic
Ot make me feel so fine
Ven first I vas been marriet--
Oh, dot leedle boy of mine!
He look yoost like his fader!--
So, ven der vimmen said,
'Vot a purty leedle baby!'
Katrina shake der head. . . .
I dink she must 'a' notice
Dot der baby vas a-gryin',
Und she cover up der blankets
Of dot leedle boy of mine.
Vel, ven he vas got bigger,
Dot he grawl und bump his nose,
Und make der table over,
Und molasses on his glothes--
Dot make 'im all der sveeter,--
So I say to my Katrine,
'Better you vas quit a-shpankin'
Dot leedle boy of mine!'
No more he vas older
As about a dozen months
He speak der English language
Und der German--bote at vonce!
Und he dringk his glass of lager
[...] Read more
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Not Too Bad
De cottage vas close py der garden gate,
It vas not mighdty hardt to find it,
A couple of gum-trees grew shoost in front,
Und a pig\shty grew shoost pehind it.
Dere vos milk-cows und sheep on der clover-flat
Und a creek vhere der vater ran,
Der misdress of all, vas der Vidder McCaul,
Und I vos her handy man.
Ach, shveet vas der ploom on der orchard-trees,
Und lofely der flowers in shpring;
But, der vidder's daughter. Yemima Ann,
She vas shveeter ash efferyting.
She valked on der ferry ground I lofed,
Und her eyes were so lofely prown,
Dat vheneffer I see dat she looked at me,
Vhy, I felt mineself top-side down.
I lofed mine life ash I lofed dat girl,
Und a vik from her tvinkling eye
Ash I helped her moundt on der old prown mare
Made me feel apout ten feet high.
Vhen she cantered home ash der sun vent down,
Und I lifted her oop to der ground,
Vhen I felt her yoomp, mine heardt vent boomp,
Und I felt apout twelfe feet round.
So I shpeaks to mineself,' I must hafe dat girl,
For mithout her I aint no use;'
So I tole her von day vhat a duck she vas,
Und she tell me I vas a coose.
Den a shearer coomed town from der Lachlan,
Pout ash tall ash a wool-shed toor,
Und he took her avay on a pullock-tray,
Und she neffer comes pack some more.
So I vent, vat you calls, ' clean off your shoomps,'
I crinds oop mine teeth und schvear;
I knocks mineself town mit a pag of shaff,
Und I picks mineself oop py mine hair.
I shvears I could hang and trown mineself,
Und fill mineself oop mit shot too;
Put, shoost vhen I run to get mine gun,
Der vidder, she tole me not to.
She said, ash she fried me some eggs for mine tea,
Und her tears shpluttered in der pan,
'Vas it not goot enough to her daughter lose,
Mithout losing her handy man?
Vas der fish not askh good vhat vas in der sea
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas E. Spencer
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Four Seasons : Summer
From brightening fields of ether fair disclosed,
Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth:
He comes attended by the sultry Hours,
And ever fanning breezes, on his way;
While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies,
All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.
Hence, let me haste into the mid-wood shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom;
And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large,
And sing the glories of the circling year.
Come, Inspiration! from thy hermit-seat,
By mortal seldom found: may Fancy dare,
From thy fix'd serious eye, and raptured glance
Shot on surrounding Heaven, to steal one look
Creative of the Poet, every power
Exalting to an ecstasy of soul.
And thou, my youthful Muse's early friend,
In whom the human graces all unite:
Pure light of mind, and tenderness of heart;
Genius, and wisdom; the gay social sense,
By decency chastised; goodness and wit,
In seldom-meeting harmony combined;
Unblemish'd honour, and an active zeal
For Britain's glory, liberty, and Man:
O Dodington! attend my rural song,
Stoop to my theme, inspirit every line,
And teach me to deserve thy just applause.
With what an awful world-revolving power
Were first the unwieldy planets launch'd along
The illimitable void! thus to remain,
Amid the flux of many thousand years,
That oft has swept the toiling race of men,
And all their labour'd monuments away,
Firm, unremitting, matchless, in their course;
To the kind-temper'd change of night and day,
And of the seasons ever stealing round,
Minutely faithful: such the All-perfect hand!
That poised, impels, and rules the steady whole.
When now no more the alternate Twins are fired,
And Cancer reddens with the solar blaze,
Short is the doubtful empire of the night;
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek'd-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east:
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow;
And, from before the lustre of her face,
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Four Seasons : Winter
See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train;
Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme,
These! that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms,
Congenial horrors, hail! with frequent foot,
Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life,
When nursed by careless Solitude I lived,
And sung of Nature with unceasing joy,
Pleased have I wander'd through your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure;
Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst;
Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew'd,
In the grim evening sky. Thus pass'd the time,
Till through the lucid chambers of the south
Look'd out the joyous Spring, look'd out, and smiled.
To thee, the patron of her first essay,
The Muse, O Wilmington! renews her song.
Since has she rounded the revolving year:
Skimm'd the gay Spring; on eagle-pinions borne,
Attempted through the Summer-blaze to rise;
Then swept o'er Autumn with the shadowy gale;
And now among the wintry clouds again,
Roll'd in the doubling storm, she tries to soar;
To swell her note with all the rushing winds;
To suit her sounding cadence to the floods;
As is her theme, her numbers wildly great:
Thrice happy could she fill thy judging ear
With bold description, and with manly thought.
Nor art thou skill'd in awful schemes alone,
And how to make a mighty people thrive;
But equal goodness, sound integrity,
A firm, unshaken, uncorrupted soul,
Amid a sliding age, and burning strong,
Not vainly blazing for thy country's weal,
A steady spirit regularly free;
These, each exalting each, the statesman light
Into the patriot; these, the public hope
And eye to thee converting, bid the Muse
Record what envy dares not flattery call.
Now when the cheerless empire of the sky
To Capricorn the Centaur Archer yields,
And fierce Aquarius stains the inverted year;
Hung o'er the farthest verge of Heaven, the sun
Scarce spreads through ether the dejected day.
Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot
His struggling rays, in horizontal lines,
Through the thick air; as clothed in cloudy storm,
Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky;
And, soon-descending, to the long dark night,
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Four Seasons : Autumn
Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more,
Well pleased, I tune. Whate'er the wintry frost
Nitrous prepared; the various blossom'd Spring
Put in white promise forth; and Summer-suns
Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view,
Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.
Onslow! the Muse, ambitious of thy name,
To grace, inspire, and dignify her song,
Would from the public voice thy gentle ear
A while engage. Thy noble cares she knows,
The patriot virtues that distend thy thought,
Spread on thy front, and in thy bosom glow;
While listening senates hang upon thy tongue,
Devolving through the maze of eloquence
A roll of periods, sweeter than her song.
But she too pants for public virtue, she,
Though weak of power, yet strong in ardent will,
Whene'er her country rushes on her heart,
Assumes a bolder note, and fondly tries
To mix the patriot's with the poet's flame.
When the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days,
And Libra weighs in equal scales the year;
From Heaven's high cope the fierce effulgence shook
Of parting Summer, a serener blue,
With golden light enliven'd, wide invests
The happy world. Attemper'd suns arise,
Sweet-beam'd, and shedding oft through lucid clouds
A pleasing calm; while broad, and brown, below
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain:
A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air
Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun
By fits effulgent gilds the illumined field,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along.
A gaily chequer'd heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can shoot around,
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.
These are thy blessings, Industry! rough power!
Whom labour still attends, and sweat, and pain;
Yet the kind source of every gentle art,
And all the soft civility of life:
Raiser of human kind! by Nature cast,
Naked, and helpless, out amid the woods
And wilds, to rude inclement elements;
With various seeds of art deep in the mind
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Four Seasons : Spring
Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation join'd
In soft assemblage, listen to my song,
Which thy own Season paints; when Nature all
Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.
And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravaged vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless: so that scarce
The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulf'd,
To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste
At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,
And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more
The expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold
But, full of life and vivifying soul,
Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads then thin,
Fleecy, and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven.
Forth fly the tepid airs: and unconfined,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous, the impatient husbandman perceives
Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers
Drives from their stalls, to where the well used plough
Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke
They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share
The master leans, removes the obstructing clay,
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe
While through the neighbouring fields the sowe stalks,
With measured step, and liberal throws the grain
Into the faithful bosom of the ground;
The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.
Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious Man
Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow!
Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend!
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Lady of the Lake: Canto II. - The Island
I.
At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,
'T is morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay,
All Nature's children feel the matin spring
Of life reviving, with reviving day;
And while yon little bark glides down the bay,
Wafting the stranger on his way again,
Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray,
And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,
Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!
II.
Song.
'Not faster yonder rowers' might
Flings from their oars the spray,
Not faster yonder rippling bright,
That tracks the shallop's course in light,
Melts in the lake away,
Than men from memory erase
The benefits of former days;
Then, stranger, go! good speed the while,
Nor think again of the lonely isle.
'High place to thee in royal court,
High place in battled line,
Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport!
Where beauty sees the brave resort,
The honored meed be thine!
True be thy sword, thy friend sincere,
Thy lady constant, kind, and dear,
And lost in love's and friendship's smile
Be memory of the lonely isle!
III.
Song Continued.
'But if beneath yon southern sky
A plaided stranger roam,
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh,
And sunken cheek and heavy eye,
Pine for his Highland home;
Then, warrior, then be thine to show
The care that soothes a wanderer's woe;
Remember then thy hap erewhile,
A stranger in the lonely isle.
'Or if on life's uncertain main
Mishap shall mar thy sail;
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain,
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Walter Scott
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Der Drummer
Who puts oup at der pest hotel,
Und dakes his oysders on der schell,
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell
Der drummer.
Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore,
Drows down his pundles on der vloor,
Und nefer schtops to shut der door!
Der drummer.
Who dakes me py der handt, und say,
"Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?"
Und goes for peesness righdt avay?
Der drummer.
Who shpreads his zamples in a trice,
Und dells me, "Look, und see how nice"?
Und says I gets "der bottom price"?
Der drummer.
Who dells how sheap der goots vas bought,
Mooch less as vot I gould imbort,
But lets dem go as he vas "short"?
Der drummer.
Who says der tings vas eggstra vine, —
"Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine," —
Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine?
Der drummer.
Who varrants all der goots to suit
Der gustomers ubon his route,
Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot?
Der drummer.
Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt,
Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut,
Und kiss Katrina in der mout'?
Der drummer.
Who, ven he gomes again dis vay,
Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say,
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Dee Coming Man
I Vant some invormashun, shust so qvickly vot
I can, How I shall pring mine Yawcob oup to been der
coming man, For efery day id seem to me der brosbect look
der harder To make dot coming man imbrove ubon dot going
fader. 'Tvas beddher he vas more like me, a Deutscher
blain und rude, As to been abofe hees peesnis und grown oup to
been a dude.
I doil'd oxshbect dot poy off mine a Vashington
to be, Und schop mit hadchets all aronndt ubon mine
abblcdree, So he can let der coundtry know he echmardter
vas- as I, Und got scheap adverdising dot he don'd could
dell a lie : Mine Yawcob lets der drees alone undil der fruit
dhey bear, Und dhen dot feller he looks oudt und gets der
lion's share.
Some say 'tvas beddher dot you teach der young
ideas to shoot; Veil, I dink dis aboudt id : dot advice id vas no
goot! Dot poy vonce dook hees broder oudt nnd dhey
blay Yilliam Tell, Budt Yawcob vas no shooter —he don'd do id
pooty veil; Dot arrow don'd go droo der core, budt id vent
pooty near — Shust near enough to miss id und go droo hees
broder's ear.
He dravels mit hees buysickle in efery kind off
redder, Und dough he vas a demperance poy, somedimes
he dakes a "header": I don'd know shust oxactly vot dot vas—'tis vorse
as bier— Shust like he shtrike a cyglone und valk righdt
off on his ear ! I ask von time aboudt id, budt dot poy he only
grumble, Und say I beddhcr try id vonce, dhen maybe I
vould "tumble."
Dot Yawcob says dot ve vas boor, vmd he vants
to be richer, Und dot der coming man must been a virsd-glass
pase-pall pitcher ; He say he must be "shtriking oudt und try nnd
"make a hit," Und dells me I vas "off mine pase" vhen I makes
fun off it; Vhen I say he soon must baddle hees canoe "oudt
on der schwim," He say dot von off Hanlan's shells vas goot
enough for him.
Dot Shakesbeer say aboudt der son dot's brofligate
und vild : "How sharper as a serpent's thanks vas been der
toothless shild!" (I got dot leedle dwisted; I mean dot thankless
youth He cuts hees poor oldt fader more as a serpent's
tooth.) Und dhen der broverb dells us dot der shild he
must obey, Und dot eef you should shpare der rod you shpoil
him righdt avay.
Vell, Yawcob he vas pooty goot—I guess I don'd
gomblain, I somedimes vish, mineself, dot I vas been a poy
again. I lets him blay mit pase-pall, und dake headers
vhile he can. I prings him oup mit kindness, und I risk der
coming man. Let neighbor Pfeiffer use der shtick, vhile Otto
howls und dances ; I'll shpoil der rod und shpare der shild, I dink,
und dake der shances.
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Columbiad: Book I
The Argument
Natives of America appear in vision. Their manners and characters. Columbus demands the cause of the dissimilarity of men in different countries, Hesper replies, That the human body is composed of a due proportion of the elements suited to the place of its first formation; that these elements, differently proportioned, produce all the changes of health, sickness, growth and decay; and may likewise produce any other changes which occasion the diversity of men; that these elemental proportions are varied, not more by climate than temperature and other local circumstances; that the mind is likewise in a state of change, and will take its physical character from the body and from external objects: examples. Inquiry concerning the first peopling of America. View of Mexico. Its destruction by Cortez. View of Cusco and Quito, cities of Peru. Tradition of Capac and Oella, founders of the Peruvian empire. Columbus inquires into their real history. Hesper gives an account of their origin, and relates the stratagems they used in establishing that empire.
I sing the Mariner who first unfurl'd
An eastern banner o'er the western world,
And taught mankind where future empires lay
In these fair confines of descending day;
Who sway'd a moment, with vicarious power,
Iberia's sceptre on the new found shore,
Then saw the paths his virtuous steps had trod
Pursued by avarice and defiled with blood,
The tribes he foster'd with paternal toil
Snatch'd from his hand, and slaughter'd for their spoil.
Slaves, kings, adventurers, envious of his name,
Enjoy'd his labours and purloin'd his fame,
And gave the Viceroy, from his high seat hurl'd.
Chains for a crown, a prison for a world
Long overwhelm'd in woes, and sickening there,
He met the slow still march of black despair,
Sought the last refuge from his hopeless doom,
And wish'd from thankless men a peaceful tomb:
Till vision'd ages, opening on his eyes,
Cheer'd his sad soul, and bade new nations rise;
He saw the Atlantic heaven with light o'ercast,
And Freedom crown his glorious work at last.
Almighty Freedom! give my venturous song
The force, the charm that to thy voice belong;
Tis thine to shape my course, to light my way,
To nerve my country with the patriot lay,
To teach all men where all their interest lies,
How rulers may be just and nations wise:
Strong in thy strength I bend no suppliant knee,
Invoke no miracle, no Muse but thee.
Night held on old Castile her silent reign,
Her half orb'd moon declining to the main;
O'er Valladolid's regal turrets hazed
The drizzly fogs from dull Pisuerga raised;
Whose hovering sheets, along the welkin driven,
Thinn'd the pale stars, and shut the eye from heaven.
Cold-hearted Ferdinand his pillow prest,
Nor dream'd of those his mandates robb'd of rest,
Of him who gemm'd his crown, who stretch'd his reign
To realms that weigh'd the tenfold poise of Spain;
Who now beneath his tower indungeon'd lies,
Sweats the chill sod and breathes inclement skies.
[...] Read more
poem by Joel Barlow
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Yawcob's Dribdlations
Maybe dot you don'd rememper,
Eighdeen — dwendy years ago, How I dold aboudt mine Yawcob —
Dot young rashkell, don'd you know, Who got schicken-box und measles;
Filled mine bipe mit Limburg scheeze; Cut mine cane up indo dhrum-schticks,
Und blay all sooch dricks as dhese.
Yell! dhose times dhey vas been ofer,
Und dot son off mine, py shings! Now vas taller as hees fader,
Und vas oup to all sooch dhings Like shimnastic dricks und pase-pall;
Und der oder day he say Dot he boxes mit " adthledics,"
Somevheres ofer on Back Bay.
Times vas deeferent, now, I dold you,
As vhen he vas been a lad; Dhen Katrine she make hees drowsers
Vrom der oldt vones off hees dad; Dhey vas cut so full und baggy
Dot id dook more as a fool To find oudt eef he vas going,
Or vas coming home vrom school.
Now, dhere vas no making ofer
Off mine clothes to make a suit For dot poy — der times vas exchanged;
"Der leg vas on der oder boot;" For vhen hees drowsers dhey gets dhin,
Und sort off "schlazy" roundt der knee, Dot Mrs. Strauss she dake der sceessors
Und she cuts dhem down for me.
Shnst der oder day dot Yawcob
Gife me von elecdric shock, Vhen he say he vants fife-hundord
To invesht in railroadt schtock. Dhen I dell him id vas beddher
Dot he leaf der schtocks alone, Or some feller dot vas schmardter
Dake der meat imd leaf der bone.
Und vhen I vas got oxcited,
Und say he get "echwiped" und fooled, Dheri he say he haf a "pointer"
Yrom soom friendts off Sage und Gould; Und dot he vas on " rock bottom;"
Had der "inside track" on "Atch "
Dot vas too mooch for hees fader,
Und I coom oup to der scratch.
Dhen in bolitics he dabbles,
Und all qvesdions, great und schmall, Make no deeferent to dot Yawcob —
For dot poy he knows id all. Und he say dot dhose oldt fogies
Must be laid oup on der shelf, Und der governors und mayors
Should pe young men — like himself.
Yell! I vish I vas dransborted
To dhose days off long ago, Vhen dot schafer beat der milk-ban
Und schkydoodled droo der schnow. I could schtand der mumbs nnd measles,
Und der ruckshuns in der house; Budt mine presendt dribulations
Vas too mooch for Meester Strauss.
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Corsair
'O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our soul's as free
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway-
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range
From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave;
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
whom slumber soothes not - pleasure cannot please -
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried,
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide,
The exulting sense - the pulse's maddening play,
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight,
And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal,
And where the feebler faint can only feel -
Feel - to the rising bosom's inmost core,
Its hope awaken and Its spirit soar?
No dread of death if with us die our foes -
Save that it seems even duller than repose:
Come when it will - we snatch the life of life -
When lost - what recks it but disease or strife?
Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away:
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head;
Ours - the fresh turf; and not the feverish bed.
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang - one bound - escapes control.
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave,
And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave:
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
For us, even banquets fond regret supply
In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the prey,
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow,
How had the brave who fell exulted now!'
II.
Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while:
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along,
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song!
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand,
They game-carouse-converse-or whet the brand:
[...] Read more
Orlando Furioso Canto 20
ARGUMENT
Guido and his from that foul haunt retire,
While all Astolpho chases with his horn,
Who to all quarters of the town sets fire,
Then roving singly round the world is borne.
Marphisa, for Gabrina's cause, in ire
Puts upon young Zerbino scathe and scorn,
And makes him guardian of Gabrina fell,
From whom he first learns news of Isabel.
I
Great fears the women of antiquity
In arms and hallowed arts as well have done,
And of their worthy works the memory
And lustre through this ample world has shone.
Praised is Camilla, with Harpalice,
For the fair course which they in battle run.
Corinna and Sappho, famous for their lore,
Shine two illustrious light, to set no more.
II
Women have reached the pinnacle of glory,
In every art by them professed, well seen;
And whosoever turns the leaf of story,
Finds record of them, neither dim nor mean.
The evil influence will be transitory,
If long deprived of such the world had been;
And envious men, and those that never knew
Their worth, have haply hid their honours due.
III
To me it plainly seems, in this our age
Of women such is the celebrity,
That it may furnish matter to the page,
Whence this dispersed to future years shall be;
And you, ye evil tongues which foully rage,
Be tied to your eternal infamy,
And women's praises so resplendent show,
They shall, by much, Marphisa's worth outgo.
IV
To her returning yet again; the dame
To him who showed to her such courteous lore,
Refused not to disclose her martial name,
Since he agreed to tell the style be bore.
She quickly satisfied the warrior's claim;
To learn his title she desired so sore.
'I am Marphisa,' the virago cried:
All else was known, as bruited far and wide.
[...] Read more
poem by Ludovico Ariosto
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Rivals
Look heah! Is I evah tole you 'bout de curious way I won
Anna Liza? Say, I nevah? Well heah's how de thing wuz done.
Lize, you know, wuz mighty purty —dat's been forty yeahs ago —
'N 'cos to look at her dis minit, you might'n spose dat it wuz so.
She wuz jes de greates' 'traction in de county, 'n bless de lam'!
Eveh darkey wuz a-co'tin, but it lay 'twix me an' Sam.
You know Sam. We both wuz wukin' on de ole John Tompkin's place.
'N evehbody wuz a-watchin' t' see who's gwine to win de race.
Hee! hee! hee! Now you mus' raley 'scuse me fu' dis snickering,
But I jes can't he'p f'om laffin' eveh time I tells dis thing.
Ez I wuz a-sayin', me an' Sam wuked daily side by side,
He a-studyin', me a-studyin', how to win Lize fu' a bride.
Well, de race was kinder equal. Lize wuz sorter on de fence;
Sam he had de mostes dollars, an' I had de mostes sense.
Things dey run along 'bout eben tel der come Big Meetin' day;
Sam den thought, to win Miss Liza, he had foun' de shoest way.
An' you talk about big meetin's! None been like it 'fore nor sence;
Der wuz sich a crowd o' people dat we had to put up tents.
Der wuz preachers f'om de Eas', an' 'der wuz preachers f'om de Wes';
Folks had kilt mos' eveh chicken, an' wuz fattenin' up de res'.
Gals had all got new w'ite dresses, an' bought ribbens fu' der hair,
Fixin' fu' de openin' Sunday, prayin' dat de day'd be fair.
Dat de Reveren' Jasper Jones of Mount Moriah, it wuz 'low'd,
Wuz to preach de openin' sermon; so you know der wuz a crowd.
Fu' dat man wuz sho a preacher; had a voice jes like a bull;
So der ain't no use in sayin' dat de meetin' house wuz full.
Folks wuz der f'om Big Pine Hollow, some come 'way f'om Muddy Creek,
Some come jes to stay fu' Sunday, but de crowd stay'd thoo de week.
Some come ridin' in top-buggies wid de w'eels all painted red,
Pulled by mules dat run like rabbits, each one tryin' to git ahead.
Othah po'rer folks come drivin' mules dat leaned up 'ginst de shaf',
Hitched to broke-down, creaky wagons dat looked like dey'd drap in half.
But de bigges' crowd come walkin', wid der new shoes on der backs;
'Scuse wuz dat dey couldn't weah em 'cause de heels wuz full o' tacks.
[...] Read more
poem by James Weldon Johnson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Die Schwalbenhode
1.
weh unser guter kaspar ist tot
wer trägt nun die brennende fahne im zopf wer dreht die
kaffeemühle
wer lockt das idyllische reh
auf dem meer verwirrte er die schiffe mit dem wörtchen
parapluie und die winde nannte er bienenvater
weh weh weh unser guter kaspar ist tot heiliger bimbam
kaspar ist tot
die heufische klappern in den glocken wenn man seinen vornamen
ausspricht darum seufze ich weiter kaspar
kaspar kaspar
warum bist du ein stern geworden oder eine kette aus wasser
an einem heißen wirbelwind oder ein euter aus
schwarzem licht oder ein durchsichtiger Ziegel an der
stöhnenden trommel des felsigen wesens
jetzt vertrocknen unsere scheitel und sohlen und die feen
liegen halbverkohlt auf den scheiterhaufen
2.
jetzt donnert hinter der sonne
die schwarze kegelbahn und keiner zieht mehr die kompasse
und die räder der schiebkarren auf
wer ißt nun mit der ratte am einsamen tisch wer verjagt den
teufel wenn er die pferde verführen will wer erklärt uns
die monogramme in den sternen
seine büste wird die kamine aller wahrhaft edlen menschen
zieren doch das ist kein trost und schnupftabak für einen
totenkopf
3.
auf den wasserkanzeln bewegten die kaskadeure ihre
fähnchen wie figura 5 zeigt
die abenteurer mit falschen bärten und diamantenen hufen
bestiegen vermittels aufgeblasener walfischhäute
schneiend das podium
der große geisterlöwe harun al raschid sprich harung al radi
gähnte dreimal und zeigte seine vom rauchen schwarz
gewordenen zähne
die merzerisierten klapperschlangen wickelten sich von ihren
spulen mähten ihr getreide und verschlossen es in steine
aus dem saum des todes traten die augen der jungen sterne
nach der geißelung auf der sonnenbacke tanzten die hufe des
esels auf flaschenköpfen
die toten fielen wie flocken von den ledernen türmen
wieviel totengerippe drehten die räder der tore
als der wasserfall dreimal gekräht hatte erblich seine tapete bis
[...] Read more
poem by Jean Arp
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Manden fra Paradiis
Der var engang en Enke -
Dog nei! jeg maa mig først betænke;
Hun havde været det, men var nu gift paany,
Med Een fra Thy;
(Det maae vi ikke glemme).
— En Aftenstund, da Manden ei var hjemme,
Sad hun med Haanden under Kind,
Selv Theemaskinen var en Smule sovet ind,
(Den ellers sang en Tone, reen og klar,
Og førte tidt ved Bordet den bedste Passiar).
Fra Jordens Taageland,
Fløi Tankerne til hendes første Mand;
Hun kunde ei den søde Sjæl forglemme,
Og ak! den anden var jo ikke hjemme,
— „Du har det godt!" udbrød hun, „fri for Nød
Du sidder i det abrahamske Skjød,
Og seer til os, der i den snevre Stue
Maa plages slemt af Hoste og af Snue!"
Hun taug og faldt igjen i Tanker,
Da hører hun, hvor det paa Døren banker;
Hun skotter hen til Krogen;
„Uh! er der Nogen?"
(Thi hun var bange for — ja det var hele Tingen -
At see en Aand i den, der havde før slet ingen).
Nu banker det igjen, og saa gaaer Døren op — -
Men det er ingen Aand, nei Een med Kjød og Krop!
Det er en Haandværkssvend, der nu har sprængt sit Buur,
Og gaaer fra By til By og seer paa Guds Natur;
Han gjør Visitter kun, for ei at smægte,
Sligt kalder man: at fægte.
Han var, det saae hun nok, en sælle Een,
Der gik i dette Liv paa sine egne Been;
Og som han sagde det, der noget laae i Tonen,
Der rørte Konen.
Hun spurgte ham, hvorfra han kom, hvorhen han gik;
Og Svaret, som hun fik,
Det var: han drog paa Bursche-Viis,
Nu gjennem Tydskland til Paris. -
Da blev hun i sit Hjerte glad,
Hun dækked' op med Øl og Mad,
Og sagde: „Sæt sig dog, og spiis!
Hvad, reiser han til Paradiis?
O, Herre Gud! i dette Land
Der har jeg jo min første Mand;
Hils ham fra mig og fra vor Datter,
Og hils ham ogsaa lidt fra Fatter!"
[...] Read more
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Opus Null
1
Ich bin der große Derdiedas
das rigorose Regiment
der Ozonstengel prima Qua
der anonyme Einprozent.
Das P. P. Tit und auch die Po
Posaune ohne Mund und Loch
das große Herkulesgeschirr
der linke Fuß vom rechten Koch.
Ich bin der lange Lebenslang
der zwölfte Sinn im Eierstock
der insgesamte Augustin
im lichten Zelluloserock.
2
Er zieht aus seinem schwarzen Sarg
um Sarg um Sarg um Sarg hervor.
Er weint mit seinem Vorderteil
und wickelt sich in Trauerflor.
Halb Zauberer halb Dirigent
taktiert er ohne Alpenstock
sein grünes Ziffernblatt am Hut
und fällt von seinem Kutscherbock.
Dabei stößt er den Ghettofisch
von der möblierten Staffelei.
Sein langer Würfelstrumpf zerreißt
zweimal entzwei dreimal entdrei.
3
Er sitzt mit sich in einem Kreis.
Der Kreis sitzt mit dem eignen Leib.
Ein Sack mit einem Kamm der steht
dient ihm als Sofa und als Weib.
Der eigne Leib der eigne Sack.
Der Vonvon und die linke Haut.
Und tick und tack und tipp und topp
der eigne Leib fällt aus der Braut.
Er schwingt als Pfund aus seinem Stein
die eigne Braut im eignen Sack.
Der eigne Leib im eignen Kreis
fällt nackt als Sofa aus dem Frack.
4
Mit seiner Dampfmaschine treibt
er Hut um Hut aus seinem Hut
und stellt sie auf in Ringelreihn
wie man es mit Soldaten tut.
[...] Read more
poem by Jean Arp
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Canto the Fourth
I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.
III.
In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
IV.
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
V.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Were There Hope
I was never in a league of noble gentlemen
To whom she'd cast polite and flitting smiles,
Only distant hope and dying dreams for me!
Or perhaps descent into a game of wiles
To give a chance of sipping wine on heady nights
With her angelic presence to declare;
Above, an aura playing out hypnotic hues,
And I in awe of blonde cascades of hair.
But no! my tiring soul is sinking in a mire
To haunt me for an age and evermore, for
How could I expect to hold her silken hand
When I am but a soulless ghost of yore?
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope, hope?
Hope?
[...] Read more
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!