Pages in topic: < [1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10] > | Poetry Corner: Do you have any favourite poems? If so, share them here! Thread poster: Paul Dixon
| right, Rilke | Feb 25, 2011 |
It's Rilke alright, sorry about that. Very sober one by Kipling there!
[Edited at 2011-02-25 18:03 GMT] | | | Mihaela Buruiana Romania Local time: 09:01 Member (2011) English to Romanian + ... Robert Creeley | Mar 29, 2011 |
Hi everyone! I'm so happy I found this thread! Here are two of my favourite poems by Robert Creeley: A Token My lady fair with soft arms, what can I say to you-words, words as if all worlds were there. The Rain All night the sound had come back again, and again falls this quiet, persistent rain. What am I to myself that must be remembered, i... See more Hi everyone! I'm so happy I found this thread! Here are two of my favourite poems by Robert Creeley: A Token My lady fair with soft arms, what can I say to you-words, words as if all worlds were there. The Rain All night the sound had come back again, and again falls this quiet, persistent rain. What am I to myself that must be remembered, insisted upon so often? Is it that never the ease, even the hardness, of rain falling will have for me something other than this, something not so insistent-- am I to be locked in this final uneasiness. Love, if you love me, lie next to me. Be for me, like rain, the getting out of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi- lust of intentional indifference. Be wet with a decent happiness. I havent got a nickle— I havent got a dime— I havent got a cent— I dont have that kind of time (all rite for you, friend that's the most we herewith propose a toast: It's a hopeless world. ▲ Collapse | | | Ligia Dias Costa Portugal Local time: 07:01 English to Portuguese + ... SITE LOCALIZER Thanks, Alice | Mar 29, 2011 |
Alice Crisan wrote: Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) IF you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, ' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
[Edited at 2011-02-20 01:02 GMT] This is definitely the poem of my life! Ligia | | | Mihaela Buruiana Romania Local time: 09:01 Member (2011) English to Romanian + ... A Romanian poem | Mar 29, 2011 |
I've got so many beautiful poems I'd like to share with you, that I would probably get to monopolise this thread and be banned from the site. Here's one more, by a Romanian writer whom I admire very much - Octavian Paler, and which is emblematic for his whole work and life. Zodia Racului Ce bine ar fi fost să fiu un rac autentic, să merg constant înapoi. Te-aş întâlni pri... See more I've got so many beautiful poems I'd like to share with you, that I would probably get to monopolise this thread and be banned from the site. Here's one more, by a Romanian writer whom I admire very much - Octavian Paler, and which is emblematic for his whole work and life. Zodia Racului Ce bine ar fi fost să fiu un rac autentic, să merg constant înapoi. Te-aş întâlni printre amintiri si după ce te-aş găsi nu ţi-aş mai da drumul, te-aş târî cu mine înapoi, să ne iubim tineri şi nevinovaţi, după care, mereu înapoi, te-aş târî mai departe, spre copilărie, ne-am juca inocenţi până ce, obosiţi de joc şi de inocenţă, Am dispărea într-un mit. Dar nu sunt un rac autentic, în zadar mă tot laud cu zodia mea, sunt condamnat să merg înainte şi tot ce pot e să târăsc între cleştii mei de rac toată memoria mea, fără să cedez nimic, nimic, nimic, cu riscul ca povara ei uriaşă să mă ucidă într-o zi. ----------------------------------------------------------- And my quick translation: I wish I were an authentic Cancer, So I could constantly retrace my steps. I would meet you again in my memories And, once found, I wouldn’t let you go, I would drag you back with me, To love each other, young and blameless, Then I would keep dragging you back To our childhood, We’d play innocently Until, tired of games and innocence, We’d disappear into a myth. But I’m not an authentic Cancer, it’s no use bragging about my sign, I’m doomed to go forward And all I can do is drag between my crab claws My entire memory, without ever giving up any of it, Running the risk of one day being killed by its burden. ▲ Collapse | |
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IPtranslate (X) Brazil English to Dutch + ... My two favourites | Mar 29, 2011 |
The first is by Elizabeth Barrett Browning If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile her look her way Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of ease on such a day" For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me f... See more The first is by Elizabeth Barrett Browning If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile her look her way Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of ease on such a day" For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry, A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity. and the second makes me cry every time I read it or hear it; especially the closing line is, I think, the absolute summum of being lost W. H. Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good ▲ Collapse | | |
The LORAX By Dr. Seuss At the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows and the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows and no birds ever sing excepting old crows... is the Street of the Lifted Lorax. And deep in the Grickle-grass, some people say, if you look deep enough you can still see, today, where the Lorax once stood just as long as it could before somebody lifted the Lorax away. What was the ... See more The LORAX By Dr. Seuss At the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows and the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows and no birds ever sing excepting old crows... is the Street of the Lifted Lorax. And deep in the Grickle-grass, some people say, if you look deep enough you can still see, today, where the Lorax once stood just as long as it could before somebody lifted the Lorax away. What was the Lorax? And why was it there? And why was it lifted and taken somewhere from the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows? The old Once-ler still lives here. Ask him. He knows. You won't see the Once-ler. Don't knock at his door. He stays in his Lerkim on top of his store. He lurks in his Lerkim, cold under the roof, where he makes his own clothes out of miff-muffered moof. And on special dank midnights in August, he peeks out of the shutters and sometimes he speaks and tells how the Lorax was lifted away. He'll tell you, perhaps... if you're willing to pay. On the end of a rope he lets down a tin pail and you have to toss in fifteen cents and a nail and the shell of a great-great-great- grandfather snail. Then he pulls up the pail, makes a most careful count to see if you've paid him the proper amount. Then he hides what you paid him away in his Snuvv, his secret strange hole in his gruvvulous glove. Then he grunts, "I will call you by Whisper-ma-Phone, for the secrets I tell you are for your ears alone." SLUPP! Down slupps the Whisper-ma-Phone to your ear and the old Once-ler's whispers are not very clear, since they have to come down through a snergelly hose, and he sounds as if he had smallish bees up his nose. "Now I'll tell you," he says, with his teeth sounding gray, "how the Lorax got lifted and taken away... It all started way back... such a long, long time back... Way back in the days when the grass was still green and the pond was still wet and the clouds were still clean, and the song of the Swomee-Swans rang out in space... one morning, I came to this glorious place. And I first saw the trees! The Truffula Trees! The bright-colored tufts of the Truffula Trees! Mile after mile in the fresh morning breeze. And, under the trees, I saw Brown Bar-ba-loots frisking about in their Bar-ba-loot suits as they played in the shade and ate Truffula fruits. From the rippulous pond came the comfortable sound of the Humming-Fish humming while splashing around. But those trees! Those trees! Those Truffula Trees! All my life I'd been searching for trees such as these. The touch of their tufts was much softer than silk. And they had the sweet smell of fresh butterfly milk. I felt a great leaping of joy in my heart. I knew just what I'd do! I unloaded my cart. In no time at all, I had built a small shop. Then I chopped down a Truffula Tree with one chop. And with great skillful skill and with great speedy speed, I took the soft tuft, and I knitted a Thneed! The instant I'd finished, I heard a ga-Zump! I looked. I saw something pop out of the stump of the tree I'd chopped down. It was sort of a man. Describe him?... That's hard. I don't know if I can. He was shortish. And oldish. And brownish. And mossy. And he spoke with a voice that was sharpish and bossy. "Mister!" he said with a sawdusty sneeze, "I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues. And I'm asking you, sir, at the top if my lungs"- he was very upset as he shouted and puffed- "What's that THING you've made out of my Truffula tuft?" "Look, Lorax," I said. "There's no cause for alarm. I chopped just one tree. I am doing no harm. I'm being quite useful. This thing is a Thneed. A Thneed's a Fine-Something-That-All-People-Need! It's a shirt. It's a sock. It's a glove. It's a hat. But it has other uses. Yes, far beyond that. You can use it for carpets. For pillows! For sheets! Or curtains! Or covers for bicycle seats!" The Lorax said, "Sir! You are crazy with greed. There is no one on earth who would buy that fool Thneed!" But the very next minute I proved he was wrong. For, just at that minute, a chap came along, and he thought the Thneed I had knitted was great. He happily bought it for three ninety-eight I laughed at the Lorax, "You poor stupid guy! You never can tell what some people will buy." "I repeat," cried the Lorax, "I speak for the trees!" "I'm busy," I told him. "Shut up, if you please." I rushed 'cross the room, and in no time at all, built a radio-phone. I put in a quick call. I called all my brothers and uncles and aunts and I said, "Listen here! Here's a wonderful chance for the whole Once-ler Family to get mighty rich! Get over here fast! Take the road to North Nitch. Turn left at Weehawken. Sharp right at South Stitch." And, in no time at all, in the factory I built, the whole Once-ler Family was working full tilt. We were all knitting Thneeds just as busy as bees, to the sound of the chopping of Truffula Trees. Then... Oh! Baby! Oh! How my business did grow! Now, chopping one tree at a time was too slow. So I quickly invented my Super-Axe-Hacker which whacked off four Truffula Trees at one smacker. We were making Thneeds four times as fast as before! And that Lorax?... He didn't show up any more. But the next week he knocked on my new office door. He snapped, "I am the Lorax who speaks for the trees which you seem to be chopping as fast as you please. But I'm also in charge of the Brown Bar-ba-loots who played in the shade in their Bar-ba-loot suits and happily lived, eating Truffula Fruits. "NOW... thanks to your hacking my trees to the ground, there's not enough Truffula Fruit to go 'round. And my poor Bar-ba-loots are all getting the crummies because they have gas, and no food, in their tummies! "They loved living here. But I can't let them stay. They'll have to find food. And I hope that they may. Good luck, boys," he cried. And he sent them away. I, the old Once-ler, felt sad as I watched them all go. BUT... business is business! And business must grow regardless of crummies in tummies, you know. I meant no harm. I most truly did not. But I had to grow bigger. So bigger I got. I biggered my factory. I biggered my roads. I biggered my wagons. I biggered the loads of the Thneeds I shipped out. I was shipping them forth to the South! To the East! To the West! To the North! I went right on biggering... selling more Thneeds. And I biggered my money, which everyone needs. Then again he came back! I was fixing some pipes when that old-nuisance Lorax came back with more gripes. "I am the Lorax," he coughed and he whiffed. He sneezed and he snuffled. He snarggled. He sniffed. "Once-ler!" he cried with a cruffulous croak. "Once-ler! You're making such smogulous smoke! My poor Swomee-Swans... why, they can't sing a note! No one can sing who has smog in his throat. "And so," said the Lorax, "-please pardon my cough- they cannot live here. So I'm sending them off. "Where will they go?... I don't hopefully know. They may have to fly for a month... or a year... To escape from the smog you've smogged up around here. "What's more," snapped the Lorax. (His dander was up.) "Let me say a few words about Gluppity-Glupp. Your machine chugs on, day and night without stop making Gluppity-Glupp. Also Schloppity-Schlopp. And what do you do with this leftover goo?... I'll show you. You dirty old Once-ler man, you! "You're glumping the pond where the Humming-Fish hummed! No more can they hum, for their gills are all gummed. So I'm sending them off. Oh, their future is dreary. They'll walk on their fins and get woefully weary in search of some water that isn't so smeary." And then I got mad. I got terribly mad. I yelled at the Lorax, "Now listen here, Dad! All you do is yap-yap and say, 'Bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!' Well, I have my rights, sir, and I'm telling you I intend to go on doing just what I do! And, for your information, you Lorax, I'm figgering On biggering and BIGGERING and BIGGERING and BIGGERING, turning MORE Truffula Trees into Thneeds which everyone, EVERYONE, EVERYONE needs!" And at that very moment, we heard a loud whack! From outside in the fields came a sickening smack of an axe on a tree. Then we heard the tree fall. The very last Truffula Tree of them all! No more trees. No more Thneeds. No more work to be done. So, in no time, my uncles and aunts, every one, all waved me good-bye. They jumped into my cars and drove away under the smoke-smuggered stars. Now all that was left 'neath the bad smelling-sky was my big empty factory... the Lorax... and I. The Lorax said nothing. Just gave me a glance... just gave me a very sad, sad backward glance... as he lifted himself by the seat of his pants. And I'll never forget the grim look on his face when he heisted himself and took leave of this place, through a hole in the smog, without leaving a trace. And all that the Lorax left here in this mess was a small pile of rocks, with one word... "UNLESS." Whatever that meant, well, I just couldn't guess. That was long, long ago. But each day since that day I've sat here and worried and worried away. Through the years, while my buildings have fallen apart, I've worried about it with all of my heart. "But now," says the Once-ler, "Now that you're here, the word of the Lorax seems perfectly clear. UNLESS someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not. "SO... Catch!" calls the Once-ler. He lets something fall. "It's a Truffula Seed. It's the last one of all! You're in charge of the last of the Truffula Seeds. And Truffula Trees are what everyone needs. Plant a new Truffula. Treat it with care. Give it clean water. And feed it fresh air. Grow a forest. Protect it from axes that hack. Then the Lorax and all of his friends may come back."
[Edited at 2011-03-29 12:55 GMT] ▲ Collapse | | | Mihaela Buruiana Romania Local time: 09:01 Member (2011) English to Romanian + ...
Thank you, Derek! I enjoyed it very much. So funny and sad and full of wisdom at the same time. | | | Josef Brodsky | Mar 30, 2011 |
Brodsky is the poet I love most. I was but what you'd brush with your palm, what your leaning brow would hunch to in evening's raven-black hush. I was but what your gaze in that dark could distinguish: a dim shape to begin with, later - features, a face. It was you, on my right, on my left, with your heated sighs, who molded my helix whispering at my side. It was you by that black win... See more Brodsky is the poet I love most. I was but what you'd brush with your palm, what your leaning brow would hunch to in evening's raven-black hush. I was but what your gaze in that dark could distinguish: a dim shape to begin with, later - features, a face. It was you, on my right, on my left, with your heated sighs, who molded my helix whispering at my side. It was you by that black window's trembling tulle pattern who laid in my raw cavern a voice calling you back. I was practically blind. You, appearing, then hiding, gave me my sight and heightened it. Thus some leave behind a trace. Thus they make worlds. Thus, having done so, at random wastefully they abandon their work to its whirls. Thus, prey to speeds of light, heat, cold, or darkness, a sphere in space without markers spins and spins. 1981, translated by Paul Graves. and the original М. Б. Я был только тем, чего ты касалась ладонью, над чем в глухую, воронью ночь склоняла чело. Я был лишь тем, что ты там, снизу, различала: смутный облик сначала, много позже - черты. Это ты, горяча, ошую, одесную раковину ушную мне творила, шепча. Это ты, теребя штору, в сырую полость рта вложила мне голос, окликавший тебя. Я был попросту слеп. Ты, возникая, прячась, даровала мне зрячесть. Так оставляют след. Так творятся миры. Так, сотворив их, часто оставляют вращаться, расточая дары. Так, бросаем то в жар, то в холод, то в свет, то в темень, в мирозданьи потерян, кружится шар. ▲ Collapse | |
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Mihaela Buruiana Romania Local time: 09:01 Member (2011) English to Romanian + ... Woman, Nikki Giovanni | Apr 5, 2011 |
My favourite poetess and one of my favourite poems written by her: Woman she wanted to be a blade of grass amid the fields but he wouldn't agree to be the dandelion she wanted to be a robin singing through the leaves but he refused to be her tree she spun herself into a web and looking for a place to rest turned to him but he stood straight declining to be her corner she ... See more My favourite poetess and one of my favourite poems written by her: Woman she wanted to be a blade of grass amid the fields but he wouldn't agree to be the dandelion she wanted to be a robin singing through the leaves but he refused to be her tree she spun herself into a web and looking for a place to rest turned to him but he stood straight declining to be her corner she tried to be a book but he wouldn't read she turned herself into a bulb but he wouldn't let her grow she decided to become a woman and though he still refused to be a man she decided it was all right ▲ Collapse | | | One of my favourites ... | Apr 5, 2011 |
is by Rudyard Kipling:- TAKE of English earth as much As either hand may rightly clutch. In the taking of it breathe Prayer for all who lie beneath. Not the great nor well-bespoke, But the mere uncounted folk Of whose life and death is none Report or lamentation. Lay that earth upon thy heart, And thy sickness shall depart! It shall sweeten and make whole Fevered breath and festered soul. It shall mighti... See more is by Rudyard Kipling:- TAKE of English earth as much As either hand may rightly clutch. In the taking of it breathe Prayer for all who lie beneath. Not the great nor well-bespoke, But the mere uncounted folk Of whose life and death is none Report or lamentation. Lay that earth upon thy heart, And thy sickness shall depart! It shall sweeten and make whole Fevered breath and festered soul. It shall mightily restrain Over-busied hand and brain. It shall ease thy mortal strife ’Gainst the immortal woe of life, Till thyself, restored, shall prove By what grace the Heavens do move. Take of English flowers these— Spring’s fullfaced primroses, Summer’s wild widehearted rose, Autumn’s wall-flower of the close, And, thy darkness to illume, Winter’s bee-thronged ivy-bloom. Seek and serve them where they bide From Candlemas to Christmas-tide, For these simples, used aright, Can restore a failing sight. These shall cleanse and purify Webbed and inward-turning eye; These shall show thee treasure hid, Thy familiar fields amid; And reveal (which is thy need) Every man a King indeed! ▲ Collapse | | | P.L.F. Persio Netherlands Local time: 08:01 Member (2010) English to Italian + ... Montale, of course! | Apr 5, 2011 |
Tom in London wrote: Non chiederci la parola che squadri da ogni lato l'animo nostro informe, e a lettere di fuoco lo dichiari e risplenda come un croco perduto in mezzo a un polveroso prato. Ah l'uomo che se ne va sicuro, agli altri ed a se stesso amico, e l'ombra sua non cura che la canicola stampa sopra uno scalcinato muro! Non domandarci la formula che mondi possa aprirti, sì qualche storta sillaba e secca come un ramo. Codesto solo oggi possiamo dirti: ciò che non siamo, ciò che non vogliamo. (from "Ossi di seppia" 1925) MY QUICK TRANSLATION Don't ask us to find the word that could square our formless soul from every side, and in letters of fire declare itself, and bloom as splendid as a crocus forgotten in the middle of a dusty lawn. Etc....
[Edited at 2011-02-19 17:25 GMT] Tom, you made me hungry for more: give me the whole version! You should work on the first verse, but the fourth (is it an amphibrach?) has a powerful rhythm, and its sound fully recreates the alliteration of the original verse. Bravo! I want to propose another great poem by Eugenio Montale, one of my favourites since school time, La casa dei doganieri: Tu non ricordi la casa dei doganieri sul rialzo a strapiombo sulla scogliera: desolata t’attende dalla sera in cui v’entrò lo sciame dei tuoi pensieri e vi sostò irrequieto. Libeccio sferza da anni le vecchie mura e il suono del tuo riso non è più lieto: la bussola va impazzita all’avventura e il calcolo dei dadi più non torna. Tu non ricordi; altro tempo frastorna la tua memoria; un filo s’addipana. Ne tengo ancora un capo; ma s’allontana la casa e in cima al tetto la banderuola affumicata gira senza pietà. Ne tengo un capo; ma tu resti sola né qui respiri nell’oscurità. Oh l’orizzonte in fuga, dove s’accende rara la luce della petroliera! Il varco è qui? (Ripullula il frangente ancora sulla balza che scoscende...) Tu non ricordi la casa di questa mia sera. Ed io non so chi va e chi resta. The Coastguard Station You don’t remember the coastguard house perched at the top of the jutting height, awaiting you still, abandoned since that night when your thoughts came swarming in and paused there, hovering. Southwesters have lashed the old walls for years, the gaiety has vanished from your laugh: the compass swings at random, crazy, odds can no longer be laid on the dice. You don’t remember: a thread pays out. I hold one end still; but the house keeps receding, above the roof the soot- blackened weathervane whirls, pitiless. I hold one end: but you stay on, alone, not here, breathing in my darkness. Oh, the horizon keeps on receding, there, far out where a rare tanker’s light blinks in the blackness! Is the crossing here? (The furious breakers climb the cliff that falls off, sheer…) You don’t remember the house of this, my evening. And I don’t know who’s staying, who’s leaving. [William Arrowsmith] | | | Paul Dixon Brazil Local time: 04:01 Portuguese to English + ... TOPIC STARTER Regina Rousseau | Apr 5, 2011 |
An excellent yet little known Brazilian poet, unfortunately her only anthology is out of print but her poetry (in Portuguese) is quite impressive. Much of her poetry is about the Paraíba Valley, where she was born and lives. "O dia amanheceu com as luzes apagadas, quando tua vida desapareceu da minha vida de um momento para o outro. Não há consolo que abrande o coração. Nem paz para as lembranças, sonhos e planos. A morte os levou contigo e... See more An excellent yet little known Brazilian poet, unfortunately her only anthology is out of print but her poetry (in Portuguese) is quite impressive. Much of her poetry is about the Paraíba Valley, where she was born and lives. "O dia amanheceu com as luzes apagadas, quando tua vida desapareceu da minha vida de um momento para o outro. Não há consolo que abrande o coração. Nem paz para as lembranças, sonhos e planos. A morte os levou contigo embora. Entraste na cápsula protetora, e encontraste a chave secreta do tempo, a rota certa das estrelas e a altura exata do infinito. Agora, pertences ao céu. Os astros falam teu nome. O universo tem o endereço da tua casa. Mas eu nem posso passear em tua calçada... pisar na terra sagrada. Tua vida começa agora, meu poeta. Tua alma está mais que desperta." TRANSLATION: Day broke with the lights out, When your life vanished from mine All of a sudden. No consolation soothens the heart Nor peace to calm memories, plans and dreams Death took them away with you. You entered the protective capsule, And found the secret key to time, The correct path of the stars And the exact height of the infinite. Now you belong to the sky And the stars speak your name. The Universe has your home address But I can't walk along your pavement... Or step on the sacred land. Your life starts now, my poet, Your soul is more than awake. ▲ Collapse | |
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Alice Crisan United Kingdom Local time: 07:01 English to Romanian + ... a piece of wisdom | Apr 5, 2011 |
Ligia Dias Costa wrote: Alice Crisan wrote: Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) IF you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, ' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
[Edited at 2011-02-20 01:02 GMT] This is definitely the poem of my life! Ligia Sorry Ligia I haven`t noticed your posting.I`m glad you like it.I can read it all over again and never get bored of it. | | | Post removed: This post was hidden by a moderator or staff member because it was not in line with site rule | Sanja Raunig Italy Local time: 08:01 Italian to Croatian + ... "Sonnet XVIII" Shall I Compare Thee? | Apr 6, 2011 |
Sonnet XVIII, Shall I Compare Thee? By William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day? Thou are more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's c... See more Sonnet XVIII, Shall I Compare Thee? By William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day? Thou are more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. ▲ Collapse | | | Pages in topic: < [1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10] > | To report site rules violations or get help, contact a site moderator: You can also contact site staff by submitting a support request » Poetry Corner: Do you have any favourite poems? If so, share them here! TM-Town | Manage your TMs and Terms ... and boost your translation business
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