/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.3759721]

Post your favorite poem in this thread.

[Anonymous No.3759736]

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I want to fuck that little girl
And half of /lit/ probably does too

[Anonymous No.3759735]

So much depends

Upon a red wheelbarrow

Glazed with rainwater

Beside the white chickens

[Anonymous No.3759737]

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

[Anonymous No.3759744]

Horse Piano

The idea is to get a horse, a Central Park workhorse.

A horse who lives in a city, over in the hell part of Hell’s
Kitchen, in a big metal tent.

You have to get one who is dying.

Maybe you get his last day on the job, his owner, his
tourists.

You get his walk back home at the end of the day,

some flies, some drool. You get his deathbed, maybe.

And then, post mortem, still warm, you get the vet or else
the butcher

to take his three best legs. And then you get the taxidermist
to stuff them

heavy, with some alloy, steel, something.

Next day you go over to Christie’s interiors sale and buy a baby-grand piano,

shabby condition but tony provenance, let’s say it graced the
entry hall

of some other Vanderbilt’s Gold Coast classic six.

And you ask the welder you know to carefully replace the
piano legs

with the horse legs, and you put the horse/piano somewhere
like a lobby,

and you hire a guy to play it on the hour, so that everybody
will know

how much work it is to hold anything up in this world.

— Anna McDonald

[Anonymous No.3759751]

>>3759736
Why would you want to do lewd things to this delicate little flower?

Little girls are for protecting.

[Anonymous No.3759753]

>>3759751
I'd protect her. With my cock.

[Anonymous No.3759759]

>>3759753
it's not rape if she's reading lolita

[Anonymous No.3759760]

>>3759753
I won't let you.

[Anonymous No.3759762]

>>3759721
>"The New Erotic Photography" right over her head

[Anonymous No.3759763]

>>3759751
It's a fucking trap, you guys. Geez.

[Anonymous No.3759764]

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

[Anonymous No.3759769]

I could just post the one Poem I know...

[Anonymous No.3759773]

>>3759764
keats is perfect
well except for his longer shit. bits of beauty in it but let's be honest it's no To Autumn

mine is Ode on a Grecian Urn, been memorizing it this week. dunno why I waited so long since it's my favorite poem and I memorized lots of other poems and I could have used it to good advantage last month but fie

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

[Anonymous No.3759775]

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet.
Age: five thousand three hundred days.
Profession: none, or "starlet"

Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze?
Why are you hiding, darling?
(I Talk in a daze, I walk in a maze
I cannot get out, said the starling).

Where are you riding, Dolores Haze?
What make is the magic carpet?
Is a Cream Cougar the present craze?
And where are you parked, my car pet?

Who is your hero, Dolores Haze?
Still one of those blue-capped star-men?
Oh the balmy days and the palmy bays,
And the cars, and the bars, my Carmen!

Oh Dolores, that juke-box hurts!
Are you still dancin', darlin'?
(Both in worn levis, both in torn T-shirts,
And I, in my corner, snarlin').

Happy, happy is gnarled McFate
Touring the States with a child wife,
Plowing his Molly in every State
Among the protected wild life.

My Dolly, my folly! Her eyes were vair,
And never closed when I kissed her.
Know an old perfume called Soliel Vert?
Are you from Paris, mister?

L'autre soir un air froid d'opera m'alita;
Son fele -- bien fol est qui s'y fie!
Il neige, le decor s'ecroule, Lolita!
Lolita, qu'ai-je fait de ta vie?

Dying, dying, Lolita Haze,
Of hate and remorse, I'm dying.
And again my hairy fist I raise,
And again I hear you crying.

Officer, officer, there they go--
In the rain, where that lighted store is!
And her socks are white, and I love her so,
And her name is Haze, Dolores.

Officer, officer, there they are--
Dolores Haze and her lover!
Whip out your gun and follow that car.
Now tumble out and take cover.

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.
Her dream-gray gaze never flinches.
Ninety pounds is all she weighs
With a height of sixty inches.

My car is limping, Dolores Haze,
And the last long lap is the hardest,
And I shall be dumped where the weed decays,
And the rest is rust and stardust.

[Anonymous No.3759777]

>>3759773
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

[Anonymous No.3759781]

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

[Anonymous No.3759811]

>>3759762
She's looking at banned books in Dutch for some reason. Erotic photography seems right up her alley — well, hers, or whoever owns those books.

[Anonymous No.3759817]

>>3759811
She's looking
at banned books in
Dutch
for some reason Erotic
photography seems right
up her alley —

well, hers, or whoever
owns
those books.

[Anonymous No.3759829]

>>3759817
Thank
you, little
one.

[Anonymous No.3759995]

Love Poem by Richard Brautigan

It's so nice
to wake up in the morning
all alone
and not have to tell somebody
you love them
when you don't love them
any more.

[Anonymous No.3759998]

Just a snippet:

THESE fought, in any case, and some believing, pro domo, in any case . . Some quick to arm, some for adventure, some from fear of weakness, some from fear of censure, some for love of slaughter, in imagination, learning later . . .

some in fear, learning love of slaughter; Died some "pro patria, non dulce non et decor". .

walked eye-deep in hell believing in old men's lies, then unbelieving came home, home to a lie, home to many deceits, home to old lies and new infamy;

usury age-old and age-thick and liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before

frankness as never before, disillusions as never told in the old days, hysterias, trench confessions, laughter out of dead bellies.
...
There died a myriad,
And of the best, among them,
For an old bitch gone in the teeth,
For a botched civilization,

Charm, smiling at the good mouth,
Quick eyes gone under earth's lid,

For two gross of broken statues,
For a few thousand battered books.

[Anonymous No.3760003]

>sharing your favorite poem

Are you plebs serious? That's like selling your dog

[Anonymous No.3760010]

>>3759775
This one is really beautiful...thanks for posting...I read out loud, and slowly. Very savory.

Here's one I wrote, while trying to read when a group of Particular Individuals decided to settle near me.

Dark African tribes
Fucking loud as the Dickens
VCR is gone

[Anonymous No.3760016]

>>3760010
is /pol/ raiding lit

[Anonymous No.3760018]

"Bosnia Tune", Brodsky


As you pour yourself a scotch
Crush a roach or check your watch
As your hands adjust your tie
people die

In the towns with funny names
Hit by bullets, caught in flames
By and large not knowing why
people die

In small places you don't know
Yet big for having no
Chance to scream or say good-bye
people die

People die as you elect
New apostles of neglect,
Self restraint, etc. whereby
people die

Too far off to practice love
For thy neighbour, brother, Slav
Where your cherubs dread to fly
people die

While the statues disagree
Cain's version, history
For its fuel tends to buy
those who die

As you watch the athletes score
Check your latest statement or
Sing your child a lullaby
people die

Time, whose sharp, bloodthirsty quill
Parts the killed from those who kill
Will pronounce the latter tribe
As your tribe

[Anonymous No.3760024]

>>3760018
why is this your favorite poem aside from the message

[Anonymous No.3760025]

WHEN my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
That has long faded from the world;
The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
The love-tales wrought with silken thread
By dreaming ladies upon cloth
That has made fat the murderous moth;
The roses that of old time were
Woven by ladies in their hair,
The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
Through many a sacred corridor
Where such grey clouds of incense rose
That only God's eyes did not close:
For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,
A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew,
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,
Their swords upon their iron knees,
Brood her high lonely mysteries.

[Anonymous No.3760055]

>>3760024
I just love joseph brodsky's poetry. Its often sharp and to the point and haunting, but also very beautiful.

[Anonymous No.3760076]

POOP

poop is such a relief to do
getting rid of all the crap in you

food in your mouth
shit out your south
the cycle relentessly continue

whether many or a few
turds in you
eject easily or slowly drag thru

daily it's the same
as your bowels proclaim
'once again the shit is due! '

this poem isn't profound
about that lovely brown mound
some in fact will think it crap
and i humbly agree
with all that's bottled up
inside me

[Anonymous No.3760889]

“I think I could turn and live with the animals, they are so placid and self contained;
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied-not one is demented with the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor his kind that lived thousands of years ago;
Not one is responsible or industrious over the whole earth.”
-Walt Whitman

[Anonymous No.3760921]

Arthur RIMBAUD (1854-1891)

Ma bohème

Je m'en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ;
Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal ;
J'allais sous le ciel, Muse ! et j'étais ton féal ;
Oh ! là ! là ! que d'amours splendides j'ai rêvées !

Mon unique culotte avait un large trou.
- Petit-Poucet rêveur, j'égrenais dans ma course
Des rimes. Mon auberge était à la Grande-Ourse.
- Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou

Et je les écoutais, assis au bord des routes,
Ces bons soirs de septembre où je sentais des gouttes
De rosée à mon front, comme un vin de vigueur ;

Où, rimant au milieu des ombres fantastiques,
Comme des lyres, je tirais les élastiques
De mes souliers blessés, un pied près de mon coeur !

[Anonymous No.3760958]

I'd post Ferenc Juhasz's "The Boy Changed Into A Stag Cries Out At the Gate of Secrets" (Ted Hughes translation) but it's like fourteen pages long and there's no full version of it on the internet for me to copy/paste.

Excerpt:
The mother called after her son
from the far distance
The mother called after her son
from the far distance,
she went out in front of the house, calling
and she loosened her hair's thick knot,
which the dusk wove to a thick, stirring veil,
a valuable mantle covering the Earth,
wove to a stiff and heavily-flaring mantle,
a banner for the wind with ten black tassels,
a shroud, in the fire-slashed blood-heavy twilight.
She twisted her fingers among the fine tendrils
of the stars, the moon's suds bleached her features,
and she called after her son shrilly,
as she called him long ago, a small child,
she went out from the house talking to the wind,
and spoke to the song-birds, her words overtaking
the wild geese going in couples,
to the shivering bullrushes,
to the potato flower in its pallor,
to the clench-balled bulls rooted so deeply,
to the fragrant shadowy sumch,
she spoke to the fish where they leaped playfully,
to the momentary oil-rings, mauve and fleeting.
You birds and branches, hear me,
listen as I cry,
listen, you fishes and flowers,
listen, I cry to be heard,
listen, you glands of the pumping soils,
you vibrant fins, you astral-seeding parachutes,
decelerate, you humming motors of the saps,
screw down the whining taps in the depths of the atom,
all iron-pelvissed virgins,
sheep alive under cotton,
listen as I cry,
I am crying out to my son.

[Anonymous No.3760994]

>>3760016

It's a runoff of philosophy debate here. Since /lit/ is technically the place where you discuss philosophy you get /pol/ coming here, with their rhetoric and world view.

[Anonymous No.3761032]

>>3759751
lel she's holding "Lolita".

I don't get why people like litle girls or petite women who look like little girls. Pic related.

[Anonymous No.3761035]

>>3761032
It probably looks like I think the pic is a "petite woman" by the way I typed that, but what I meant is why like petite little girls when you have women like her.

[Anonymous No.3761041]

>>3761035
OT: Favorite Poem is probably "Imitation of Horace". It's a bit too long to post here so I'll just give the opening lines...

While you, great patron of mankind, sustain
The balanc'd world, and open all the main;
Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend,
At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend;
How shall the Muse, from such a monarch steal
An hour, and not defraud the public weal?

Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame,
And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name,
After a life of gen'rous toils endur'd,
The Gaul subdu'd, or property secur'd,
Ambition humbled, mighty cities storm'd,
Or laws establish'd, and the world reform'd;
Clos'd their long glories with a sigh, to find
Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
All human virtue, to its latest breath
Finds envy never conquer'd, but by death.
The great Alcides, ev'ry labour past,
Had still this monster to subdue at last.
Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray
Each star of meaner merit fades away!
Oppress'd we feel the beam directly beat,
Those suns of glory please not till they set.

To thee the world its present homage pays,
The harvest early, but mature the praise:
Great friend of liberty! in kings a name
Above all Greek, above all Roman fame:
Whose word is truth, as sacred and rever'd,
As Heav'n's own oracles from altars heard.
Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes
None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise.

Just in one instance, be it yet confest
Your people, Sir, are partial in the rest:
Foes to all living worth except your own,
And advocates for folly dead and gone.
Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old;
It is the rust we value, not the gold.
Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn'd by rote,
And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote:
One likes no language but the Faery Queen ;
A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green:
And each true Briton is to Ben so civil,
He swears the Muses met him at the Devil.

etc

[Anonymous No.3761047]

better yet post poems about cute 12 year old girls .

[Anonymous No.3761054]

>>3760016

Those scumbag edgy teens are not only raiding /lit/ but stealing valuable oxygen from worthy humans.

[Anonymous No.3761058]

>>3759721
>>3759751
Awwweh :3

[Anonymous No.3761063]

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

[Anonymous No.3761066]

>>3761063
III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

[Anonymous No.3761070]

>>3761066
Sure, it's a famous and obvious poem, but fuck me with a chainsaw, is it powerful.

"Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow"

I will never forget those lines. They come to me nearly every day.

[Anonymous No.3761083]

>2013
>no one posted Invictus
>ISHIGYDIG
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

[Anonymous No.3761082]

>>3759775

[Anonymous No.3761104]

>>3761083
Too triumphant for me. I like my poetry with a heady dose of pessimism.

[Anonymous No.3761107]

Too big and I dont want to deal with posting three times

"Howl" by Allen Ginsberg

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179381

[Anonymous No.3761108]

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

[Anonymous No.3761109]

>>3761107
I was reading "Howl" yesterday for class. Holy fuck that is a powerful poem. Good choice.

[Anonymous No.3761113]

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair --
Lean on a garden urn --
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair --
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise --
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.


So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and a shake of the hand.


She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight, and the noon's repose.

[Anonymous No.3761144]

Sonora desert song

To the ossified multitudes,
to the fragmented drives of mind-bearers,
to the linguistic programming of a symbolic quest
for the final artefact, a treefold salutation!

Of these consists my coat of arms:
A pool of dust golden sand,
A yellowed miniature skull, trepanned,
with thin threads of dry flesh still attached,
A kiln-baked earthenware pot filled to the brim with
Thick mourning moonbeams,
Images hewn together with all the uneasy heraldry of an oath-breaker.

This, and an air of mimed courage as my shield
I venture to brave thee, desert!

Mighty desert!
Your song a world-shattering void
In a shaft of fierce afternoon sunlight,
Your song an arterial spray of dry seeds
On a dead seabed, still-born,
Your song a high atrocity of absence
performed with great precision.
I beseech you!

Give me back my harness of gilded reverence!
Give me back my mature reserve!
Give me back my guarded approach!
Give me back my radiant tungsten soul!

I kiss the hem of your immensity,
I genuflect to your flailing gusts of disinterested emptiness,
I throw my life at the mercy of your unflinching comtempt.

[Anonymous No.3761176]

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

I bought a collection of Shelley's poetry, thinking that if Ozymandias is so great, an entire *book* of his stuff must be incredible! Unfortunately, almost all of it was crap. Seems to be a real diamond in the rough case.

[Anonymous No.3761223]

Tumultuous rain is falling troughout the night.
The drought has ended. Boisterous streams
Pick rediscovered pathways between houses
Mingling their murmurs with those of sighing spouses.

[Anonymous No.3761225]

Poems everybody!

[Johannes Calvinus !!u100KALjBus No.3761233]

Last eve I passed beside a blacksmith's door
And heard the anvil ring the vesper chime;
When looking in, I saw upon the floor,
Old hammers worn with beating years of time.

"How many anvils have you had," said I,
"To wear and batter these hammers so?"
"Just one," said he; then with a twinkling eye,
"The anvil wears the hammers out, you know."

And so, I thought, the anvil of God's Word,
For ages, skeptics blows have beat upon;
Yet, though the noise of falling blows was heard,
The anvil is unharmed - the hammers gone.

[Anonymous No.3761250]

>>3759721
Sadly, my favorite poem would be ruined if translated in English.

Glosa - Mihai Eminescu

[Anonymous No.3761260]

* * *

Есть роза дивная: она
Пред изумлённою Киферой
Цветёт, румяна и пышна,
Благословенная Венерой.
Вотще Киферу и Пафос
Мертвит дыхание мороза,
Блестит между минутных роз
Неувядаемая роза…

[Anonymous No.3761538]

>>3759764
/thread

[Anonymous No.3761544]

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snow summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying
Blow, bugle: answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying

O hark! O hear! How thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing
Blow, let us hear the purple gems replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They feint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever
Blow, bugle, blow, and set the echoes flying
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying

[Anonymous No.3762568]

WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick; 5
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

[Anonymous No.3762571]

A Shadow

I said unto myself, if I were dead,
What would befall these children? What would be
Their fate, who now are looking up to me
For help and furtherance? Their lives, I said,
Would be a volume wherein I have read
But the first chapters, and no longer see
To read the rest of their dear history,
So full of beauty and so full of dread.
Be comforted; the world is very old,
And generations pass, as they have passed,
A troop of shadows moving with the sun;
Thousands of times has the old tale been told;
The world belongs to those who come the last,
They will find hope and strength as we have done.
by my nigga Longfellow

[Anonymous No.3762573]

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of disprized Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

jk

[Anonymous No.3762636]

>>3759737
O, lay your head, human on my faithless arm.

[Anonymous No.3762637]

>>3759751
American Psycho? uh

[Anonymous No.3762638]

>>3761176
Read Ode to the Westwind, bro. Its pretty good.

[Anonymous No.3762647]

Plagued by the miasma of reprisal.
Thought: two away from cessation
And now
Define "reprisal", define "re" (- and just what is my "prise"?)
We are trapped with modern glee.
It's everywhere your words go.
Senseless, brutal, people are getting hurt
(You cad!) Paralyzing and serene, (you coy cad!) mysterious and explicit.
My valentine's valentine, the 14th being two months . . .
Before Flynn's birthday.
A pairing of months; a pair of dancers; paired description that swindles meaning from us
This malaise.