Edna St. Vincent Millay–God’s World

Scarlet Maple against a grey sky

 (Photo credit: Quiltsalad)

God’s World

O WORLD, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour!  That gaunt crag
To crush!  To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me,—let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

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Victor Hugo–Nuits de juin

Nuits de juin

L’été, lorsque le jour a fui, de fleurs couverte
La plaine verse au loin un parfum enivrant ;
Les yeux fermés, l’oreille aux rumeurs entrouverte,
On ne dort qu’à demi d’un sommeil transparent.
Les astres sont plus purs, l’ombre paraît meilleure ;
Un vague demi-jour teint le dôme éternel ;
Et l’aube douce et pâle, en attendant son heure,
Semble toute la nuit errer au bas du ciel.


In summer, when the daylight’s gone, the fields,
Covered with blossoms, scent the air for miles around.
We sleep, but in a half-sleep of transparent dreams,
Eyes shut, ears half-opened to the summer’s sound.

Pure are the stars, then;  and the dark is sweet;
A faint half daylight stains the eternal dome,
And gentle dawn, waiting for her hour to come,
All night below the sky’s edge seems to roam.


Starlit monument.

(Photo credit: iamastar2)

m Widgets

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D.H. Lawrence – Lies About Love

Leaves, flower and buds of Nymphaea nouchali ....

(Photo credit: Vietnam Plants & America plants)

Enhanced by ZemantaD.H. Lawrence – Lies About Love

We are all liars, because
the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,
whereas letters are fixed,
and we live by the letter of truth.
The love I feel for my friend, this year,
is different from the love I felt last year.
If it were not so, it would be a lie.
Yet we reiterate love! love! love!
as if it were a coin with a fixed value
instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud.

Percy Bysshe Shelley–Invocation

Leaping Lizards!

(Photo credit: peasap)


Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
‘Tis since thou art fled away.


How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.


As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.


Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure;
Thou wilt never come for pity,
Thou wilt come for pleasure; –
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.


I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight!
The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed,
And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.


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Андрей Вознесенский–Первый лед

phone booths

(Photo credit: greenchartreuse)

Андрей Вознесенский

Первый лед

Мерзнет девочка в автомате,
Прячет в зябкое пальтецо
Все в слезах и губной помаде
Перемазанное лицо.

Дышит  в худенькие ладошки.
Пальцы—льдышки.   В ушах—сережки.

Ей обратно одной, одной
Вдоль по улочке ледяной,

Первый лед. Это в первый раз.
Первый лед телефонных фраз.

Мерзлый след на щеках блестит —
Первый лед от людских обид.


A girl is freezing in a telephone booth,
huddled in her flimsy coat,
her face stained by tears
and smeared with lipstick.

She breathes on her thin little fingers.
Fingers like ice.  Glass beads in her ears.

She has to beat her way back alone
down the icy street.

First frost.  A beginning of losses.
The first frost of telephone phrases.

It is the start of winter glittering on her cheek,
the first frost of having been hurt.

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Theodore Roethke- The Waking | POLYARCHIVE

Ruins of Detroit

The Waking
Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those close beside me, which are you?
God bless the ground! I shall walk softly there.
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up the winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.


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Robert Frost in Russian

Grant riding in the snow

(Photo credit: theqspeaks)

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.

Чей это лес — я угадал
Тотчас, лишь только увидал
Над озером заросший склон,
Где снег на ветви оседал.

Мой конь, заминкой удивлен,
Как будто стряхивая сон,
Глядит — ни дома, ни огня,
Тьма да метель со всех сторон.

В дорогу он зовет меня.
Торопит, бубенцом звеня.
В ответ — лишь ветра шепоток
Да мягких хлопьев толкотня.

Лес чуден, темен и глубок.
Но должен я вернуться в срок;
И до ночлега путь далек,
И до ночлега путь далек.

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dorothy parker–now at liberty

American writer Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)

American writer Dorothy Parker (1893-1967) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dorothy Parker – Now at Liberty

Little white love, your way you’ve taken;
Now I am left alone, alone.
Little white love, my heart’s forsaken.
(Whom shall I get by telephone?)
Well do I know there’s no returning;
Once you go out, it’s done, it’s done.
All of my days are gray with yearning.
(Nevertheless, a girl needs fun.)

Little white love, perplexed and weary,
Sadly your banner fluttered down.
Sullen the days, and dreary, dreary.
(Which of the boys is still in town?)
Radiant and sure, you came a-flying;
Puzzled, you left on lagging feet.
Slow in my breast, my heart is dying.
(Nevertheless, a girl must eat.)

Little white love, I hailed you gladly;
Now I must wave you out of sight.
Ah, but you used me badly, badly.
(Who’d like to take me out tonight?)
All of the blundering words I’ve spoken,
Little white love, forgive, forgive.
Once you went out, my heart fell, broken.
(Nevertheless, a girl must live.)

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Czesław Miłosz | Spotkanie / Encounter

Jackrabbit, photographed at The Replica of old...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Czesław Miłosz


Jechaliśmy przed świtem po zamarzłych polach,
Czerwone skrzydło wstawało, jeszcze noc.

I zając przebiegł nagle tuż przed nami,
A jeden z nas pokazał go ręką.

To było dawno. Dzisiaj już nie żyją
Ni zając, ani ten co go wskazywał.

Miłości moja, gdzież są, dokąd idą
Błysk ręki, linia biegu, szelest grud —
Nie z żalu pytam, ale z zamyślenia.

Wilno, 1937.



We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago.Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.


Spotkanie (audio)

Frances Ridley Havergal | Compensation

Life all hangs in the balance

(Photo credit: Bella_189)

Oh, the compensating springs! Oh, the balance-wheels of life,
Hidden away in the workings under the seeming strife!
Slowing the fret and the friction, weighting the whirl and the force,
Evolving the truest power from each unconscious source.

How shall we gauge the whole, who can only guess a part?
How can we read the life, when we cannot spell the heart?
How shall we measure another, we who can never know
From the juttings above the surface the depth of the vein below?

Even our present way is known to ourselves alone,
Height and abyss and torrent, flower and thorn and stone;
But we gaze on another’s path as a far-off mountain scene,
Scanning the outlined hills, but never the vales between.

How shall we judge their present, we who have never seen
That which is past for ever, and that which might have been?
Measuring by ourselves, unwise indeed are we,
Measuring what we know by what we can hardly see.

Ah! if we knew it all, we should surely understand
That the balance of sorrow and joy is held with an even hand;
That the scale of success or loss shall never overflow,
And that compensation is twined with the lot of high and low.

The easy path in the lowland hath little of grand or new,
But a toilsome ascent leads on to a wide and glorious view;
Peopled and warm is the valley, lonely and chill the height,
But the peak that is nearer the storm-cloud is nearer the stars of light.

Launch on the foaming stream that bears you along like a dart, —
There is danger of rapid and rock, there is tension of muscle and heart;
Glide on the easy current, monotonous, calm, and slow,
You are spared the quiver and strain in the safe and quiet flow.

Oh, the sweetness that dwells in a harp of many strings,
While each, all vocal with love, in tuneful harmony rings!
But oh, the wail and the discord, when one and another is rent,
Tensionless, broken, or lost, from the cherished instrument.

For rapture of love is linked with the pain or fear of loss,
And the hand that takes the crown must ache with many a cross;
Yet he who hath never a conflict hath never a victor’s palm,
And only the toilers know the sweetness of rest and calm.

Only between the storms can the Alpine traveler know
Transcendent glory of clearness, marvels of gleam and glow;
Had he the brightness unbroken of cloudless summer days,
This had been dimmed by the dust and the veil of a brooding haze.

Who would dare the choice, neither or both to know,
The finest quiver of joy or the agony-thrill of woe?
Never the exquisite pain, then never the exquisite bliss,
For the heart that is dull to that can never be strung to this.

Great is the peril or toil if the glory or gain be great;
Never an earthly gift without responsible weight;
Never a treasure without-a following shade of care;
Never a power without the lurk of a subtle snare.

For the swift is not the safe, and the sweet is not the strong;
The smooth is not the short, and the keen is not the long;
The much is not the most, and the wide is not the deep;
And the flow is never a spring, when the ebb is only neap.

Then hush! oh, hush! for the Father knows what thou knowest not,
The need and the thorn and the shadow linked with the fairest lot;
Knows the wisest exemption from many an unseen snare,
Knows what will keep thee nearest, knows what thou could’st not bear.

Hush! oh, hush! for the Father portioneth as he will
To all his beloved children, and shall they not be still?
Is not his will the wisest, is not his choice the best?
And in perfect acquiescence is there not perfect rest?

Hush! oh, hush! for the Father, whose ways are true and just,
Knoweth and careth and loveth, and waits for thy perfect trust;
The cup he is slowly filling shall soon be full to the brim,
And infinite compensations forever be found in him.

Hush, oh, hush! for the Father hath fullness of joy in store,
Treasures of power and wisdom, and pleasures for ever­ more;
Blessing and honor and glory, endless, infinite bliss; —
Child of his love and his choice, oh, cant thou not wait for this?

– Frances Ridley Havergal

The Poems and Hymns of Christ’s Sweet Singer: Frances Ridley Havergal