I'm looking for a classic foreign poem to recite, something soothing and lyrical!

Soundtrack:

LIKE WIND Piano piece "Like the wind"

/class/english/documents/media/thesolitaryreaper.rar

The Solitary Reaper

BEHOLD her, single in the field,

Yon solitary High Reaper

BEHOLD her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travelers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides

There are no more than a handful of bands. Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?--

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain.

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;--

I listen'd, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

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3. Another translation of The Lonely Harvester

Look, a lonely Highland girl

Harvesting among the fields far away,

Singing alone as she cuts,

-

Please stand still. Or walk quietly by!

She cuts and bundles the wheat alone,

Singing a song of infinite sadness,

Hear it with bated breath! The deep and wide valley

has risen and overflowed with song!

Never yet has the nightingale warbled,

sung so enchanting a song,

that has soothed the weary traveler among the desert greens,

never yet has the cuckoo greeted the spring,

crying with a cry that has so shaken the soul,

that has broken the sea in the distant Hebrides,

that has broken the silence.

What does she sing, who can tell me?

The notes of sorrow flow on and on,

Is it the telling of distant misfortunes?

Is it the chanting of ancient wars?

Perhaps her song is humbler,

Just singing of today's mundane sorrows and joys,

Just singing of nature's mournful bitterness -

What was endured yesterday, and will be reunited tomorrow?

What the girl sings, I cannot guess,

Her song is like running water never ending;

Only she sings and works,

Bending down and waving her sickle, and toiling ceaselessly.......

I stood still in my gaze and listened to her sing,

Then, when I mounted the hillock,

though the song has long been unheard,

it still lingers in my heart.

Do not Go Gentle into That Good Night

by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Old age should burn

Old age should burn and rave at close of day.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light:

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

They frail

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

They frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men, who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And

Wild men, who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze likemeteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The wise at the end of life understand the reasonable justice of darkness,

and their words can no longer inspire lightning, and in spite of that

will not go meekly into that good night.

The good ones, when the last wave sweeps through, will roar

that their fragile goodness could have danced incandescent in Green Bay,

and roar, roar against the dying of the light.

The raging ones would catch the speeding sun and sing, knowing

that they had saddened it all the way, and though understanding too late

would not go meekly into that good night.

Gloomy people approaching death vision will be piercingly unique

Blind eyes flash like meteors and swirl with elation,

and roar, roar against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, rising to the supremacy of sorrow,

though cursing me and blessing me with long, old tears, I beg you

never to go meekly into that good night,

and roar, and growl against the extinction of the light.

Because I could not stop for Death--

Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death--

He kindly stopped for me--

The Carriage held but just Ourselves-

And Immortality.

We slowly drove--He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my Leisure too,

For His Civility--

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess--in the Ring--

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain--

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain--

And I had put away

My labor and my labor. of Gazing Grain--

We passed the Setting Sun--

Or rather--He passed Us--

The Dews drew quivering and chill--

For only Gossamer, my Gown--

My Tippet--only Tulle--

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground--

The Roof was scarcely visible--

he Coraice--in the Ground--

Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first sur p>

I first surmised the Horses' Heads

Were toward Eternity--

Because I couldn't stop to wait for Death

Because I couldn't stop to wait for Death

He kindly stopped to wait for me --

There was only room for the two of us in that car--

And immortality.

We drove slowly - he was unhurried

and I cast aside all my labor and idleness

for his courtesy

We walked through the schoolyard, and the children you push and shove,

at break time, in the rotunda-

We walk past the wheat stalks gazing out over the fields-

We walk past the setting sun- -

Or rather, he walked by us

The cold dew descended, and my body shivered with cold -

For my long shirt fell like a veil -

My shawl was like a silk net -

We stopped before a house,

that seemed to be a rising piece of land

the roof was almost invisible -

the eaves were inside the ground -

the roof was inside the ground -

and I could not see the roof of the house, but I could see the roof of the house. -

It was centuries from then

Not even a day had passed,

and for the first time I guessed that the horse's head

was galloping toward eternity.