Written by
Du Fu |
Wagons rumble rumble Hhorses whinny whinny Foot person bow arrow each at waist Father mother wife children go mutual see off Dust dust not see Xianyang bridge Pull clothes stamp foot bar way weep Weep sound directly up strike clouds clouds Road side passerby ask foot person Foot person only say mark down often Some from ten five north guard river Even until four ten west army fields Leave time village chief give bind head Return come head white go back garrison border Border post shed blood become sea water Warlike emperor expand border idea no end Gentleman not see Han homes hill east two hundred districts 1000 villages 10000 hamlets grow thorns trees Though be strong women hold hoe plough Seed grow dyked field not order Besides again Qin soldier withstand bitter fighting Be driven not different dogs and chickens Venerable elder though be ask Battle person dare state bitterness Even like this year winter Not stop pass west soldier District official urgent demand tax Tax tax way how pay True know produce males bad Contrast be produce females good Produce female still get married neighbour Produce male bury follow hundred grass Gentleman not see Qinghai edge Past come white skeleton no person gather New ghost vexed injustice old ghosts weep Heaven dark rain wet sound screech screech The wagons rumble and roll, The horses whinny and neigh, The conscripts each have bows and arrows at their waists. Their parents, wives and children run to see them off, So much dust's stirred up, it hides the Xianyang bridge. They pull clothes, stamp their feet and, weeping, bar the way, The weeping voices rise straight up and strike the clouds. A passer-by at the roadside asks a conscript why, The conscript answers only that drafting happens often. "At fifteen, many were sent north to guard the river, Even at forty, they had to till fields in the west. When we went away, the elders bound our heads, Returning with heads white, we're sent back off to the frontier. At the border posts, shed blood becomes a sea, The martial emperor's dream of expansion has no end. Have you not seen the two hundred districts east of the mountains, Where thorns and brambles grow in countless villages and hamlets? Although there are strong women to grasp the hoe and the plough, They grow some crops, but there's no order in the fields. What's more, we soldiers of Qin withstand the bitterest fighting, We're always driven onwards just like dogs and chickens. Although an elder can ask me this, How can a soldier dare to complain? Even in this winter time, Soldiers from west of the pass keep moving. The magistrate is eager for taxes, But how can we afford to pay? We know now having boys is bad, While having girls is for the best; Our girls can still be married to the neighbours, Our sons are merely buried amid the grass. Have you not seen on the border of Qinghai, The ancient bleached bones no man's gathered in? The new ghosts are angered by injustice, the old ghosts weep, Moistening rain falls from dark heaven on the voices' screeching."
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Written by
Federico García Lorca |
The fat lady came out first,
tearing out roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summoning the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
the dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.
There were murmuring from the jungle of vomit
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, vomit! There's no other way.
It's not the vomit of hussars on the breasts of their whores,
nor the vomit of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.
The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships, taverns, and parks.
Vomit was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go,
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.
The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.
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Written by
Philip Freneau |
In spite of all the learn'd have said;
I still my old opinion keep,
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
Not so the ancients of these lands --
The Indian, when from life releas'd
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares gain the joyous feast.
His imag'd birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.
His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.
Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way.
No fraud upon the dead commit --
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.
Here still lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace,
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a older race.
Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far -- projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires
The children of the forest play'd!
There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.
By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase array'd,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!
And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.
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Written by
Emile Verhaeren |
When our bright garden was gay with all its flowers, the regret at having shrunk our hearts sprang from our lips in moments of passion; and forgiveness, offered but deserved always, and the exaggerated display of our wretchedness and so many tears moistening our sad, sincere eyes uplifted our love.
But in these months of heavy rain, when everything huddles together and makes itself small, when brightness itself tires of thrusting back shadow and night, our soul is no longer vibrant and strong enough to confess our faults with rapture.
We tell them in slow speech; in truth, with affection still, but at the fall of the evening and no longer at dawn; sometimes even we count them on our ten fingers like things that we number and arrange in the house, and to lessen their folly or their number we debate them.
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Written by
Adam Lindsay Gordon |
We severed in Autumn early,
Ere the earth was torn by the plough;
The wheat and the oats and the barley
Are ripe for the harvest now.
We sunder'd one misty morning
Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain;
Through the flowers those hills adorning --
Thou comest not back again.
My heart is heavy and weary
With the weight of a weary soul;
The mid-day glare grows dreary,
And dreary the midnight scroll.
The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle,
'Neath the load of their golden grain;
I sigh for a mate more fickle --
Thou comest not back again.
The warm sun riseth and setteth,
The night bringeth moistening dew,
But the soul that longeth forgetteth
The warmth and the moisture too.
In the hot sun rising and setting
There is naught save feverish pain;
There are tears in the night-dews wetting --
Thou comest not back again.
Thy voice in my ear still mingles
With the voices of whisp'ring trees,
Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles
At each kiss of the summer breeze.
While dreams of the past are thronging
For substance of shades in vain,
I am waiting, watching and longing --
Thou comest not back again.
Waiting and watching ever,
Longing and lingering yet;
Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver,
Winds murmur and waters fret.
No answer they bring, no greeting,
No speech, save that sad refrain,
Nor voice, save an echo repeating --
He cometh not back again.
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