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Poetry

3 154

Modern man thinks poetry a waste of time. He doesn’t know the difference between that which takes time and that which wastes it... What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know...
0 166

Despair alone Could show me so divine a thing, Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown But vainly flapped its Tinsel wing. And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixt, But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself...
0 146

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring– When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing; The glassy...
0 178

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view, Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to trudge, Where...
0 159

Caesar has crossed the Alps, his mighty soul Great tumults pondering and the coming shock. Now on the marge of Rubicon, he saw, In face most sorrowful and ghostly guise, His trembling country's image; huge it seemed Through mists of night obscure; and hoary...
0 153

The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the...
1 232

What makes a nation’s pillars high And its foundations strong? What makes it mighty to defy The foes that round it throng? It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand Go down in battle shock; Its shafts are laid on sinking sand, Not on abiding rock. Is it the...
1 905

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much...

The Roman poet Catullus translated a masterful love poem by the Greek poet Sappho, adapting it into a Latin version that is neither simply literal nor straightforwardly accurate, but, rather, a brilliant reinterpretation... The Roman poet Catullus translated...
0 1111

The first king was very young, O balow, balow la lay, With doleful ballads on his tongue, O balow, balow la lay, He came bearing a branch of myrrh Than which no gall is bitterer, O balow, balow la lay, Gifts for a baby King,...
0 789

Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay— Stay till the good old year, So long companion of our way, Shakes hands, and leaves us here. Oh stay, oh stay, One little hour, and then away. The year, whose hopes were high and strong, Has now no hopes...
4 3735

I am weary of words and wonder why. It is perhaps because I want to ascend to that silence that echoes the innocence of the sub-linguistic bliss. I want to attain what the hymn writer called “the silence of eternity, interpreted by Love"...
1 1209

I heard the bells on Christmas day Their old familiar carols play, And wild and sweet the words repeat Of peace on earth, good will to men. I thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along th' unbroken song Of...
0 1001

Wilt thou love God, as he thee? Then digest, My soul, this wholesome meditation, How God the Spirit, by angels waited on In heaven, doth make his Temple in thy breast. The Father having begot a Son most blest, And still begetting, (for he ne'er...