Written by
Constantine P Cavafy |
Kimos, son of Menedoros, a young Greek-Italian,
devotes his life to amusing himself,
like most young men in Greater Greece
brought up in the lap of luxury.
But today, in spite of his nature,
he is preoccupied, dejected.
Near the shore
he watched, deeply distressed, as they unload
ships with booty taken from the Peloponnese.
G r e e k l o o t: b o o t y f r o m C o r i n t h.
Today certainly it is not right,
it is not possible for the young Greek-Italian
to want to amuse himself in any way.
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Written by
Elizabeth Barrett Browning |
My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes
God set between his After and Before,
And strike up and strike off the general roar
Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats
In a serene air purely.
Antidotes
Of medicated music, answering for
Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour
From thence into their ears.
God's will devotes
Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?
A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine
Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?
A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine?
A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXXXIV.
Morte ha spento quel Sol ch' abbagliar suolmi.
WEARY OF LIFE, NOW THAT SHE IS NO LONGER WITH HIM, HE DEVOTES HIMSELF TO GOD.
Death has the bright sun quench'd which wont to burn;
Her pure and constant eyes his dark realms hold:
[Pg 314]She now is dust, who dealt me heat and cold;
To common trees my chosen laurels turn;
Hence I at once my bliss and bane discern.
None now there is my feelings who can mould
From fire to frost, from timorous to bold,
In grief to languish or with hope to yearn.
Out of his tyrant hands who harms and heals,
Erewhile who made in it such havoc sore,
My heart the bitter-sweet of freedom feels.
And to the Lord whom, thankful, I adore,
The heavens who ruleth merely with his brow,
I turn life-weary, if not satiate, now.
Macgregor.
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