Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
10.19.2009
Walknut (Russia)
Graveforests And Their Shadows (2007)
Motherland Ostenvegr
Once of Northern blood
Death and tragedy
Everything in you
Ghosts and mystery
Under the grey banners of skies
Where falcons sing their pride
What haunts your iron dreams
Motherland Ostenvegr?
Endless fields
Mists and horrid woods
Barrows by the riverbanks
And autumn wind above
Long forgotten songs
Human bones in the dirt
Helmets and swords in rust
The smell of graves and autumn soil
Mighty olden oaks
Always speak to me
With their grim voices of the dead
With their neverfading memories
Once of Northern blood
Death and tragedy
Everything in you
Ghosts and mystery
11.11.2007
Wilfrid Gibson
In the forest
Unflinching I have borne the brunt of spears-
Yet, under these dark boughs that writhe and twist,
My heart is a wren's heart when she hears
The litch-owl called through the evening mist,
And falters cowed, a thing of fluttering fears,
Before some shadow-plumed antagonist.
Quaking I ride, yet know not what I dread:
Naught stirs the boding silence but the sound
Of beechmast crackling 'neath my horse's tread,
Or some last leaf that flutters to the ground;
And long it seems, since, roofless and blood-red,
The sun is seas of night-black boughs was drowned.
Unflinching I have borne the brunt of spears-
Yet, under these dark boughs that writhe and twist,
My heart is a wren's heart when she hears
The litch-owl called through the evening mist,
And falters cowed, a thing of fluttering fears,
Before some shadow-plumed antagonist.
Quaking I ride, yet know not what I dread:
Naught stirs the boding silence but the sound
Of beechmast crackling 'neath my horse's tread,
Or some last leaf that flutters to the ground;
And long it seems, since, roofless and blood-red,
The sun is seas of night-black boughs was drowned.
11.10.2007
John Keats
Ode to Nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?
7.29.2007
John Donne
1.
thou hast made me; and shall thy work decay?
repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;
i run to death, and death meets me as fast,
and all my pleasures are like yesterday.
i dare not move my dim eyes any way;
despair behind, and death before doth cast
such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
by sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
only thou are above, and when towards thee
by thy leave i can look, i rise again;
but our old subtle foe so tempteth me
that not one hour myself i can sustain.
thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
and thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.
2.
this is my play's last scene; here heavens appoint
my pilgrimage's last mile; and my race,
idly yet quickly run, hath this last pace;
my span's last inch, my minutes' latest point;
and gluttonous death will instantly unjoint
my body and my soul, and i shall sleep a space;
but my ever-waking part shall see that face
whose fear already shakes my every joint.
then as my soul to heaven, her first seat, takes flight,
and earth-born body in the earth shall dwell,
so fall my sins, that all may have their right,
to where they are bred, and would press me,--to hell.
impute me righteous, thus purged of evil,
for thus i leave the world, the flesh, the devil.
3.
at the round earth's imagined corner, blow
your trumpets, angels; and arise, arise
from death, you numberless infinities
of souls, and to your scattered bodies go;
all whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
all whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes
shall behold god and never taste death's woe.
but let them sleep, lord, and me mourn a space,
for if above all these my sins abound,
'tis late to ask abundance of thy grace
when we are there; here on this lowly ground
teach me how to repent; for that's as good
as if thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood.
thou hast made me; and shall thy work decay?
repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;
i run to death, and death meets me as fast,
and all my pleasures are like yesterday.
i dare not move my dim eyes any way;
despair behind, and death before doth cast
such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
by sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
only thou are above, and when towards thee
by thy leave i can look, i rise again;
but our old subtle foe so tempteth me
that not one hour myself i can sustain.
thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
and thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.
2.
this is my play's last scene; here heavens appoint
my pilgrimage's last mile; and my race,
idly yet quickly run, hath this last pace;
my span's last inch, my minutes' latest point;
and gluttonous death will instantly unjoint
my body and my soul, and i shall sleep a space;
but my ever-waking part shall see that face
whose fear already shakes my every joint.
then as my soul to heaven, her first seat, takes flight,
and earth-born body in the earth shall dwell,
so fall my sins, that all may have their right,
to where they are bred, and would press me,--to hell.
impute me righteous, thus purged of evil,
for thus i leave the world, the flesh, the devil.
3.
at the round earth's imagined corner, blow
your trumpets, angels; and arise, arise
from death, you numberless infinities
of souls, and to your scattered bodies go;
all whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
all whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes
shall behold god and never taste death's woe.
but let them sleep, lord, and me mourn a space,
for if above all these my sins abound,
'tis late to ask abundance of thy grace
when we are there; here on this lowly ground
teach me how to repent; for that's as good
as if thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood.
5.26.2007
Forough Farrokzhad
I Feel Sorry for the Garden (Delam barayeh Baghcheh Misuzad)
No one is thinking about the flowers,
no one is thinking about the fish,
no one wants
to believe that the garden is dying,
that the garden's heart has swollen
under the sun,
that the garden's mind is slowly
being drained of green memories,
that the garden's senses are
a separate thing rotting huddled in a corner.
our old courtyard is lonely.
our garden yawns
in anticipation of an unknown rain cloud,
and our pool is empty.
inexperienced little stars
fall to the earth from treetop heights.
and from the pale windows of the fishes' abode
the sound of coughing comes at night.
our courtyard garden is lonely.
Fathers says:
it's too late for me.
it's over for me.
I shouldered my burden
and did my share.
and in this room, from dawn to disk,
he reads either the Shahnameh
or The History Of Histories.
Father says to Mother:
to hell with all birds and fish.
when I die, then
what difference will it make
that there is a garden
or there isn't a garden?
my retirement pension is enough for me.
Mother's whole life
is a prayer rug spread
at the threshold of fears of hell.
at the bottom of everything Mother
always searches for traces of sin
and thinks that a plant's apostasy
has contaminated the garden.
Mother prays all day long.
Mother is a natural sinner
and she breathes on all the flowers
and on all the fish, and
exorcises herself.
Mother is waiting for a coming
and a forgiveness to descend upon the earth.
My brother calls the garden a graveyard.
My brother laughs at the profusion of weeds
and keeps a count
of the fish corpses
that decompose
beneath the water's sick skin.
My brother is addicted to philosophy.
My brother thinks the cure for the garden
lies in its destruction.
he gets drunk
and bangs on doors and walls
and tries to say
that he is very wart, despondent and despairing.
he carries his despair
along with his identity cars, pocket calendar,
lighter and ballpoint pen
to the street and the bazaar.
and his despair is so small
that every night
It gets lost in the crowd at the bar.
and my sister who was the flowers' friend
and took her heart's simple words
to their kind and silent company
when Mother spanked her
and occasionally offered sun and cookies
to the family of fishÉ
her house is on the other side of the city.
in her artificial home,
with her artificial goldfish,
and in the security of her artificial husband's love,
and under the branches of her artificial apple tree,
she sings artificial songs
and produces very real babies.
whenever she comes to visit us
and the hem of her skirt gets soiled
with the garden's poverty,
she takes a perfume bath.
Every time she comes to visit us,
she
is pregnant.
Our garden is lonely,
our garden is lonely.
all day long
from behind the door comes the sound
of shattering and explosions.
all our neighbors plant
bombs and machineguns in their gardens
instead of flowers.
all our neighbors
cover their tiled ponds,
which
become unwitting
secret storehouses of gunpowder.
and the children along our street
have filled their schoolbags
with small bombs.
our garden is confused.
I fear an age
that has lost its heart.
I am scared of the thought
of so many useless hands
and of picturing so many estranged faces.
like a school child
madly in love with her geometry lesson,
I am alone.
and I think that the garden
can be taken to a hospital.
I think...
I think...
I think...
and the garden's heart has swollen
under the sun,
and the garden mind is slowly
being emptied of green memories.
No one is thinking about the flowers,
no one is thinking about the fish,
no one wants
to believe that the garden is dying,
that the garden's heart has swollen
under the sun,
that the garden's mind is slowly
being drained of green memories,
that the garden's senses are
a separate thing rotting huddled in a corner.
our old courtyard is lonely.
our garden yawns
in anticipation of an unknown rain cloud,
and our pool is empty.
inexperienced little stars
fall to the earth from treetop heights.
and from the pale windows of the fishes' abode
the sound of coughing comes at night.
our courtyard garden is lonely.
Fathers says:
it's too late for me.
it's over for me.
I shouldered my burden
and did my share.
and in this room, from dawn to disk,
he reads either the Shahnameh
or The History Of Histories.
Father says to Mother:
to hell with all birds and fish.
when I die, then
what difference will it make
that there is a garden
or there isn't a garden?
my retirement pension is enough for me.
Mother's whole life
is a prayer rug spread
at the threshold of fears of hell.
at the bottom of everything Mother
always searches for traces of sin
and thinks that a plant's apostasy
has contaminated the garden.
Mother prays all day long.
Mother is a natural sinner
and she breathes on all the flowers
and on all the fish, and
exorcises herself.
Mother is waiting for a coming
and a forgiveness to descend upon the earth.
My brother calls the garden a graveyard.
My brother laughs at the profusion of weeds
and keeps a count
of the fish corpses
that decompose
beneath the water's sick skin.
My brother is addicted to philosophy.
My brother thinks the cure for the garden
lies in its destruction.
he gets drunk
and bangs on doors and walls
and tries to say
that he is very wart, despondent and despairing.
he carries his despair
along with his identity cars, pocket calendar,
lighter and ballpoint pen
to the street and the bazaar.
and his despair is so small
that every night
It gets lost in the crowd at the bar.
and my sister who was the flowers' friend
and took her heart's simple words
to their kind and silent company
when Mother spanked her
and occasionally offered sun and cookies
to the family of fishÉ
her house is on the other side of the city.
in her artificial home,
with her artificial goldfish,
and in the security of her artificial husband's love,
and under the branches of her artificial apple tree,
she sings artificial songs
and produces very real babies.
whenever she comes to visit us
and the hem of her skirt gets soiled
with the garden's poverty,
she takes a perfume bath.
Every time she comes to visit us,
she
is pregnant.
Our garden is lonely,
our garden is lonely.
all day long
from behind the door comes the sound
of shattering and explosions.
all our neighbors plant
bombs and machineguns in their gardens
instead of flowers.
all our neighbors
cover their tiled ponds,
which
become unwitting
secret storehouses of gunpowder.
and the children along our street
have filled their schoolbags
with small bombs.
our garden is confused.
I fear an age
that has lost its heart.
I am scared of the thought
of so many useless hands
and of picturing so many estranged faces.
like a school child
madly in love with her geometry lesson,
I am alone.
and I think that the garden
can be taken to a hospital.
I think...
I think...
I think...
and the garden's heart has swollen
under the sun,
and the garden mind is slowly
being emptied of green memories.
8.26.2006
Whirling dervishes
The Secret Turning
A secret turning in us
makes the universe turn.
Head unaware of feet,
and feet head. Neither cares.
They keep turning.
-Jalaleddin Rumi
A secret turning in us
makes the universe turn.
Head unaware of feet,
and feet head. Neither cares.
They keep turning.
-Jalaleddin Rumi
8.20.2006
Four holy sonnets, John Donne
thou hast made me, and shall thy worke decay?
repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste,
i runne to death, and death meets me as fast,
and all my pleasures are like yesterday;
i dare not move my dimme eyes any way,
despaire behind, and death before doth cast
such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste
by sinne in it, which it t'wards hell doth weigh;
onely thou art above, and when towards thee
by thy leave i can looke, i rise againe;
but our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
that not one houre my selfe i can sustaine;
thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
and thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.
as due by many titles i resign
my self to thee, o god; first i was made
by thee, and for thee, and when i was decayed
thy blood bought that, the which before was thine;
i am thy son, made with thy self to shine,
they servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid,
thy sheep, thine image, and, till i betrayed
my self, a temple of thy spirit divine;
why doth the devil then usurp on me?
why doth he steal, nay ravish taht's thy right?
except thou rise and for thine own work fight,
oh i shall soon despair, when i do see
that thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,
and satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.
batter my heart, three person'd god; for, you
as yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
that i may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee, 'and bend
you force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
i, like an usurpt towne, to'another due,
labour to'admit you, but oh, to no end,
reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
but is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
yet dearely'i love you,'and would be loved faine,
but am betroth'd unto your enemie:
divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe;
thake mee to you, imprison mee, for i
except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.
at the round earth imagin'd corners, blow
your trumpets, angells, and arise, arise
from death, you numberlesse infinities
of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe,
all whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
all whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,
shall behold god, and never tast deaths woe.
but let them sleepe, lord, and mee mourne a space,
for, if above all these, my sinnes abound,
'tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,
when wee are there; here on this lowly ground,
teach mee how to repent; for that's as good
as if thou'hadst sel'd my pardon, with thy blood.
repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste,
i runne to death, and death meets me as fast,
and all my pleasures are like yesterday;
i dare not move my dimme eyes any way,
despaire behind, and death before doth cast
such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste
by sinne in it, which it t'wards hell doth weigh;
onely thou art above, and when towards thee
by thy leave i can looke, i rise againe;
but our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
that not one houre my selfe i can sustaine;
thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
and thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.
as due by many titles i resign
my self to thee, o god; first i was made
by thee, and for thee, and when i was decayed
thy blood bought that, the which before was thine;
i am thy son, made with thy self to shine,
they servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid,
thy sheep, thine image, and, till i betrayed
my self, a temple of thy spirit divine;
why doth the devil then usurp on me?
why doth he steal, nay ravish taht's thy right?
except thou rise and for thine own work fight,
oh i shall soon despair, when i do see
that thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,
and satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.
batter my heart, three person'd god; for, you
as yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
that i may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee, 'and bend
you force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
i, like an usurpt towne, to'another due,
labour to'admit you, but oh, to no end,
reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
but is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
yet dearely'i love you,'and would be loved faine,
but am betroth'd unto your enemie:
divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe;
thake mee to you, imprison mee, for i
except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.
at the round earth imagin'd corners, blow
your trumpets, angells, and arise, arise
from death, you numberlesse infinities
of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe,
all whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
all whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,
shall behold god, and never tast deaths woe.
but let them sleepe, lord, and mee mourne a space,
for, if above all these, my sinnes abound,
'tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,
when wee are there; here on this lowly ground,
teach mee how to repent; for that's as good
as if thou'hadst sel'd my pardon, with thy blood.
8.04.2006
Tragic verses
Ha Mort, o douce mort, mort seule guerison
Des esprits oppresses d'une estrange prison,
Pourquoy souffres tu tant a tes droits faire tort?
T'avons nous fait offense, o douce & douce mort?
Pourquoy n'approches tu, o Parque trop tardive?
Pourquoy veux tu souffrir ceste bande captive,
Qui n'aura pas plustot le don de liberte,
Que cest esprit ne soit par ton dard ecarte?
Ah death, O gentle death, sole remedy
For spirits pinioned in captivity,
Why let your rights be flouted thus?
Did we offend thee, gentle, gentle death?
Why not draw near, O tardy Fate?
Why condescend to our captive state,
Who can no sooner from our bondage part
Than when our souls are striken with your dart?
-Jodelle's Cleopatre captive
When she that rules the rolling wheele of chaunce,
Doth turne aside hir angrie frowning face,
On him, who erst she deigned to aduance,
She never leaues to daulde him with disgrace,
To tosse and turne his state in euery place,
Till at the last she hurle him from on high
And yeld him subject unto miserie:
And as the braunche that from the roote is reft,
He never wines like leafe to that he lefte.
-Jocasta
Base fortune, now I see, that in thy wheele
There is a point, to which when men aspire,
They tumble headlong downe: that point I touchte,
And seeing there was no place to mount up higher,
Why should I greeue at my declining fall?
-Marlowe's Edward the second
Cut is the branch that might have growne full straight,
And burned is Apolloes Laurel bough
That sometime grew within this learned man.
-Marlowe's Tragical History of Doctor Faustus
Non, je ne pleure point, madame, mais je meurs.
I weep not, madam, but I die.
-Corneille's Surena
Je veux, sans que la mort ose me secourir,
Toujours aimer, toujours souffrir, toujours mourir.
Scorning the balm of death, 'tis my desire
Always to love, to suffer, to expire.
-Corneille's Surena
So young to go
Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground!
To be nailed down into a narrow place;
To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more
Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again
Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost!
How fearful! to be nothing! Or to be--
What? O, where am I? Let me not go mad!
Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! If there should be
No God, no Heaven, no earth in the void world;
The wide, grey, lampless, deep, unpeopled world!
-Shelley's Cenci
Des esprits oppresses d'une estrange prison,
Pourquoy souffres tu tant a tes droits faire tort?
T'avons nous fait offense, o douce & douce mort?
Pourquoy n'approches tu, o Parque trop tardive?
Pourquoy veux tu souffrir ceste bande captive,
Qui n'aura pas plustot le don de liberte,
Que cest esprit ne soit par ton dard ecarte?
Ah death, O gentle death, sole remedy
For spirits pinioned in captivity,
Why let your rights be flouted thus?
Did we offend thee, gentle, gentle death?
Why not draw near, O tardy Fate?
Why condescend to our captive state,
Who can no sooner from our bondage part
Than when our souls are striken with your dart?
-Jodelle's Cleopatre captive
When she that rules the rolling wheele of chaunce,
Doth turne aside hir angrie frowning face,
On him, who erst she deigned to aduance,
She never leaues to daulde him with disgrace,
To tosse and turne his state in euery place,
Till at the last she hurle him from on high
And yeld him subject unto miserie:
And as the braunche that from the roote is reft,
He never wines like leafe to that he lefte.
-Jocasta
Base fortune, now I see, that in thy wheele
There is a point, to which when men aspire,
They tumble headlong downe: that point I touchte,
And seeing there was no place to mount up higher,
Why should I greeue at my declining fall?
-Marlowe's Edward the second
Cut is the branch that might have growne full straight,
And burned is Apolloes Laurel bough
That sometime grew within this learned man.
-Marlowe's Tragical History of Doctor Faustus
Non, je ne pleure point, madame, mais je meurs.
I weep not, madam, but I die.
-Corneille's Surena
Je veux, sans que la mort ose me secourir,
Toujours aimer, toujours souffrir, toujours mourir.
Scorning the balm of death, 'tis my desire
Always to love, to suffer, to expire.
-Corneille's Surena
So young to go
Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground!
To be nailed down into a narrow place;
To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more
Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again
Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost!
How fearful! to be nothing! Or to be--
What? O, where am I? Let me not go mad!
Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! If there should be
No God, no Heaven, no earth in the void world;
The wide, grey, lampless, deep, unpeopled world!
-Shelley's Cenci
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