I'd Be Rapids,
The mountain
River,
On the rugged road,
On the rocks passing by ......
As long as my beloved
Is a little fish that
swims happily in my waves
.
I would be the barren forest,
On the banks of the river,
To a gust of wind,
Fighting bravely ......
As long as my beloved
is a little bird,
Between the branches of my thick
trees Make a nest and chirp.
I would be a ruin,
On the precipitous rock,
This silent ruin
Does not chagrin me ......
As long as my lover
Is a green ivy,
That climbs up my desolate forehead
Intimately.
Climbed intimately upward.
I would be a hayloft,
In the deep valley bottom,
The hayloft's roof,
Weathered by the wind and the rain ......
As long as my beloved
Is a lovely flame,
In my hearth,
Flickers pleasantly and slowly.
I would be a cloud,
A gray tattered flag,
Floating lazily about in the wide air,
So long as my beloved
Is a coral sunset,
Beside my pale face in vivid splendor.
Short Songs [Irish] Heaney
A lift of the rowan is a red-lipped woman.
Between the avenues and the paths that lead to
The sodden distance, where some alders
Have raised themselves high from the cordyline fields.
And a murmuring piece, the mud-stained flowers,
What makes the withered daisies still vivid?
At such moments, only the singing bird
has a faint premonition of what is happening before it.
The Lonely One [German] Rilke
No: my heart will become a tower,
and I myself will be on its edge;
there will be nothing else there but pain
and speechlessness, and nothing but a thousand worlds.
Only one thing alone in its immensity,
who now and then darkens and now and then brightens,
Only one last longing face,
rejected as forever comfortless.
Only a face of the farthest stone,
resigned to the weight of its interior,
while the vast space that silently brings it to ruin,
forces it ever more to the sacred.
The Landscape [Sweden] Martinsson
A stone bridge over a verdant wilderness.
A child stands, looking out over the running water.
In the distance: a horse,
with a slanting sun on its back.
It drinks quietly,
its mane is strewn in the river,
The Furthest Distance in the World by Rabindranath Tagore
The farthest distance in the world
is not between life and death
but between life and death
but between life and death
I am standing here in front of you and you don't even know that I love you
The farthest distance in the world
isn't between life and death
it's between life and death.
It's not that I'm standing right in front of you and you don't know that I love you
It's that you know you love each other, but you can't be together
It's that you can't resist the thought
But you have to pretend that you're not in your heart
The furthest thing from your heart
The furthest thing from your heart
The furthest thing from your heart
The furthest thing from your heart is the fact that you can't even see you, that you can't see me.
It's not that you can't resist these thoughts
but that you have to pretend that you are not in your heart
but that you have dug an unbridgeable ditch with your cold heart towards the one who loves you
.
"A Little Heart" [Austria] Kafka
The little heart/Your leaping dance/Head resting on the warm air/Feet lifted from the glittering grass/Grass in the wind
"Here We Weave a Garland" [Sweden] Sax
Here we weave a garland/Some weave the violets of thunder/I use a single stalk/I use a single stalk/I use a single stalk/I use a single stalk/I use a single stalk/I use the violet of Ray/I use a single stalk/I use a single stem/I use the violet of Ray. Filled with the language of silence / It makes the air burst with lightning
The Castle of Dreams [Canada] Marcel Nadeau. Nadeau
Imaginary roofs/beautiful/crushed stone encrusted/mirror of water/reflection of trees/walk leisurely/this castle/becomes a symbol of an idyll
Last words
By Victor Hugo
Friends, the last words
Ah! Sadie, weep, if I die!
--André Chenier
Friends, last words! --From now on I will close
this book forever, and from now on my mind will change its course.
I will no longer pay attention to the noise and clamor of the world.
For what does it matter to the source of the water?
What does it matter to me? It is the future to which I turn my heart,
the world to which this whistling autumn wind will drift
and the relentless sweep of its never-ending wings will roll away
the yellow leaves of the trees, and take away the poet's best lines.
Yes, I am still young, though on my forehead,
where passion and poetry emerge in endless streams,
every day a new wrinkle is carved,
like the furrows made by the ploughshare of my mind,
looking back at the years that have passed by unnoticed,
I have not yet seen the thirty degrees of autumn, moon and spring flowers.
I am the pride of this era! As a result of this awakening,
My soul rejects falsehoods every year,
Recognizing right and wrong, my faith seeks only thee,
Ah, sacred motherland, sacred freedom!
I hate oppression with gnashing teeth.
So when I hear that, in some corner of the world,
under a cool sky, in the clutches of a tyrant,
people are crying out to be massacred;
when Greece, our mother, betrayed to the Turkish hangman by the Christian king
is gutted and on the verge of extinction;
when blood-soaked Ireland was crucified;
when Teutonic struggled in chains under the partition of the Powers;
when Lisbon, which had been beautiful and joyous,
now suffered the ravages of the Miguel, and hung in the gallows;
when Albania was at the mercy of the motherland of Cato;
when Naples ate and slept; and when By virtue of the wooden club,
The heavy and shameful sceptre that fear enshrines,
Austria breaks the wings of the Venetian lion;
When Modena, strangled by the Archduke of Austria, is dying;
When Dresden wrestles and cries before the old king's bed;
When Madrid falls back into a dreamy sleep, and sleeps as if it were dead;
When Vienna seized Milan; when the Belgian lion
Lowly hung his head, like the ox that plows a furrow,
No longer had teeth even to bite the mouthpiece;
When the abominable Cossacks, in their bestiality,
Insulted the dead and disheveled Warsaw,
Spoiled her ragged, but chaste, and sacred garments,
When he pounced upon the dead Warsaw, lying straight on her back,
Then, in the midst of the old King's bed, Dresden, and weeping;
pouncing on the chaste woman who lay straight in her tomb and playing with her;Ah! Then toward their courts and lairs
I cursed these emperors, whose steeds were stained with blood!
I felt that the poet was their judge!
I feel that the angry God of Poetry will open his powerful fists,
as if to show them to the public, and bind their bundles to their thrones,
and then have loose crowns made into their fetters,
and then banish these emperors who would have been blessed,
and carve verses on their foreheads for the future to read!
Ah! The god of poetry should dedicate himself to the defenseless people.
I then forget love, children, family,
Soft songs and quiet leisure,
I add a string of bronze to my harp!
Winter morning
Pushkin (Russian 1799--1837)
Frost and sunshine, what a wonderful day!
Flattering friend, but you are sleeping peacefully.
It's time, beauty, to wake up!
Quickly open the sleeping eyes that have been closed with comfort.
Please come forth, as the Morning Star of the North,
to meet the Goddess of the Northern Sunset!
Last night, you remember, the wind and snow were swirling,
and the sinister sky was shrouded in a layer of gloom.
The moon, yellowing behind the dark clouds,
was like a pale speck in the night sky.
And you sit bored--
But now ...... look out the window:
Under the blue sky, like a velvet carpet
Splendidly spread out over the wilderness.
A vast blanket of white snow glistened with sunlight,
only the transparent woods glowed darkly.
And the fir-tree boughs were green through the white frost
Green: the frozen creek was crystal bright.
The whole apartment was illuminated
by the light of amber. Within the freshly-born fire
there was a pleasant crackling sound.
It was a beautiful time to lie in bed and think.
However, shouldn't you call for the brown horse to be put on the sleigh early!
Dear friend, the journey is light
Let us glide through the morning snow.
Let the fiery horses gallop,
Let us visit that open field.
The woods that not so long ago were luxuriant,
The banks of the river, how dear to me.
Narcissus
Wordsworth (English 1770--1850)
I roam alone! Like a cloud over the valley,
I look up and see a clump of
golden daffodils, colorful and dense;
By the lake's shore, in the shade,
Swinging in the wind, dancing in style.
The daffodils are densely packed with stars
flashing up and down the Milky Way,
this piece of daffodil, along the bay of the lake
in an endless row;
a glimpse of thousands of thousands of daffodils
shaking their corollas, dancing lightly.
The ripples of the lake also danced in the wind,
and the joy of the daffodils was better than the ripples;
with such delightful companions,
how could the poet not be pleased!
I gazed long, but never thought
What treasures this beauty gave me.
From then on, whenever I was lying on my couch,
or depressed, or in a state of uncertainty,
Narcissus flashed in my mind's eye -
that was the paradise of my solitude;
my heart was overflowing with joy,
and Narcissus danced with me. I will dance with the daffodils.
The Bird cherry tree
Yesenin (Su 1895--1925)
The rich Bird cherry tree,
Opening with the spring,
Golden boughs,
Growing like curls.
The honey-sweet dew,
Flows down the bark;
Leaves pungent green trails,
Glittering in silver.
Satin spikes of flowers
Glowing under the dewdrops,
Like radiant earrings,
Worn in the ears of a beautiful girl.
Where the snow is melting,
On the grass near the roots of the trees,
A silvery stream,
Flows merrily along.
The Bird cherry tree stretched out its branches,
and gave off a charming fragrance,
and golden green traces,
reflected the sun's rays.
The brook raises waves of broken jade,
Splashes on the branches of the thick plum tree,
And plays the strings under the crags,
Singing fondly for her.
The Tree at the Window
Frost (American 1874-1963)
The tree at my window, the tree at my window,
I close the window at nightfall;
But never draw the curtains,
Lest you and I be separated.
You are the shadow of a hazy dream rising from the earth,
You flit about like a floating cloud,
Not everything your light leafy tongue proclaims aloud,
Not everything is deep.
But tree, I have seen the winds shake you.
If you had spied me sleeping in this house,
you would have seen me violently stirred,
almost swept away by the storm.
That day fate, in its childish play,
Brought us two together:
You by the outer weather,
And I by the storm within.
Clever star
HEINE (DE 1797--1856)
Flowers are apt to touch men's feet,
Most of them are trodden down;
Whether it be shy or bold,
Men always trample on it as they go by.
Pearls are hidden in the treasure chests of the sea,
But they are found,
Bored holes are drilled in them, and they are fastened,
Firmly to the silken cord.
The stars are wise, and they have reason
To avoid us far from the world;
The stars hang above the canopy,
Like the lamp of the world, safe forever.
Forest
Wright (Australia 1915---)
When I first knew this forest,
I was amazed by its flowers.
Their different shapes and faces,
changing with the seasons.
White violets set in purple,
tiny sprigs of wild ginger,
small, solitary orchids on the ground,
kept me mesmerized throughout the day.
And the thick fuchsia lilies,
The bright red petals above the phoenix tree,
And where the creek runs shallow,
The turquoise canopy of the Kongjewoy.
When I first knew this forest,
there were times to spend.
And the harvest that time brings anew,
there will never be an end to it.
Now all those vines and flowers of its,
are named and known,
like wishes long since fulfilled,
the magical joy of the beginning is gone.
But I seek further,
Besides these flowers I have gathered,
There is yet to be named and known,
The one flower that never tones ----
That produces the truth of all flowers.
For Ionce
Shelley
You are adorable, baby, and I love you so!
Your dimpled cheeks, your blue eyes,
your affectionate, soft, touching body,
To teach a heart of hate to love;
Sometimes, when you are going to sleep, you fall asleep at once, and your mother
Stoops down and clasps you to her waking heart, and all the stirring that your silent eyes feel
is then imparted to thee her joyous affection;
sometimes, when she held thee to her white breast,
I gazed fondly upon thy face, and her countenance
was then hidden ---- in thine;
thee were lovelier, fair and delicate bud;