Best Famous Sempre Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sempre poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sempre poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sempre poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sempre poems.

Search and read the best famous Sempre poems, articles about Sempre poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Sempre poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

• All Famous Sempre Poems

Written by Ben Jonson | Piccolo Valzer Viennese A Vienna ci sono dieci ragazze, una spalla dove piange la morte e un bosco di colombe disseccate. C'e' un frammento del mattino nel museo della brina. C'è un salone con mille vetrate. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer con la bocca chiusa. Questo valzer, questo valzer, questo valzer, di sì, di morte e di cognac che si bagna la coda nel mare. Io ti amo, io ti amo, io ti amo con la poltrona e con il libro morto, nel malinconico corridoio, nell'oscura soffitta del giglio, nel nostro letto della luna, nella danza che sogna la tartaruga. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer dalla spezzata cintura. A Vienna ci sono quattro specchi, vi giocano la tua bocca e gli echi. C'è una morte per pianoforte che tinge d'azzurro i giovanotti. Ci sono mendichi sui terrazzi. E fresche ghirlande di pianto. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer che spira fra le mie braccia. Perchè io ti amo, ti amo, amore mio, nella soffitta dove giocano i bambini, sognando vecchie luci d'Ungheria nel mormorio di una sera mite, vedendo agnelli e gigli di neve nell'oscuro silenzio delle tue tempie. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer del "Ti amo per sempre". A Vienna ballerò con te con un costume che abbia la testa di fiume. Guarda queste mie rive di giacinti! Lascerò la mia bocca tra le tue gambe, la mia anima in foto e fiordalisi, e nelle onde oscure del tuo passo io voglio, amore mio, amore mio, lasciare, violino e sepolcro, i nastri del valzer. English Translation Little Viennese Waltz In Vienna there are ten little girls a shoulder for death to cry on and a forest of dried pigeons. There is a fragment of tomorrow in the museum of winter frost. There is a thousand-windowed dance hall. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this close-mouthed waltz. Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz, of itself, of death, and of brandy that dips its tail in the sea. I love you, I love you, I love you, with the armchair and the book of death down the melancholy hallway, in the iris's dark garret, in our bed that was once the moon's bed, and in that dance the turtle dreamed of. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this broken-waisted waltz In Vienna there are four mirrors in which your mouth and the echoes play. There is a death for piano that paints the little boys blue. There are beggars on the roof. There are fresh garlands of tears. Aye, ay, ay, ay! Take this waltz that dies in my arms. Because I love you, I love you, my love, in the attic where children play, dreaming ancient lights of Hungary through the noise, the balmy afternoon, seeing sheep and irises of snow through the dark silence of your forehead. Ay, ay, ay ay! Take this "I will always love you" waltz. In Vienna I will dance with you in a costume with a river's head. See how the hyacinths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between your legs, my soul in photographs and lilies, and in the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love, I will have to leave violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXIV SONNET LXIV. Io amai sempre, ed amo forte ancora. HE LOVES, AND WILL ALWAYS LOVE, THE SPOT AND THE HOUR IN WHICH HE FIRST BECAME ENAMOURED OF LAURA. I always loved, I love sincerely yet,And to love more from day to day shall learn,The charming spot where oft in grief I turnWhen Love's severities my bosom fret:My mind to love the time and hour is setWhich taught it each low care aside to spurn;She too, of loveliest face, for whom I burnBids me her fair life love and sin forget.Who ever thought to see in friendship join'd,On all sides with my suffering heart to cope,The gentle enemies I love so well?Love now is paramount my heart to bind,And, save that with desire increases hope,Dead should I lie alive where I would dwell. Macgregor.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CCXXI SONNET CCXXI. Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita. THINKING ALWAYS OF LAURA, IT PAINS HIM TO REMEMBER WHERE SHE IS LEFT. Still have I sought a life of solitude;The streams, the fields, the forests know my mind;That I might 'scape the sordid and the blind,Who paths forsake trod by the wise and good:Fain would I leave, were mine own will pursued,These Tuscan haunts, and these soft skies behind,Sorga's thick-wooded hills again to find;[Pg 224]And sing and weep in concert with its flood.But Fortune, ever my sore enemy,Compels my steps, where I with sorrow seeCast my fair treasure in a worthless soil:Yet less a foe she justly deigns to prove,For once, to me, to Laura, and to love;Favouring my song, my passion, with her smile. Nott. Still have I sought a life of solitude—This know the rivers, and each wood and plain—That I might 'scape the blind and sordid trainWho from the path have flown of peace and good:Could I my wish obtain, how vainly wouldThis cloudless climate woo me to remain;Sorga's embowering woods I'd seek again,And sing, weep, wander, by its friendly flood.But, ah! my fortune, hostile still to me,Compels me where I must, indignant, findAmid the mire my fairest treasure thrown:Yet to my hand, not all unworthy, sheNow proves herself, at least for once, more kind,Since—but alone to Love and Laura be it known. Macgregor.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXXI [Pg 298] SONNET LXXI. Del cibo onde 'l signor mio sempre abbonda. HE DESCRIBES THE APPARITION OF LAURA. Food wherewithal my lord is well supplied,With tears and grief my weary heart I've fed;As fears within and paleness o'er me spread,Oft thinking on its fatal wound and wide:But in her time with whom no other vied,Equal or second, to my suffering bedComes she to look on whom I almost dread,And takes her seat in pity by my side.With that fair hand, so long desired in vain,She check'd my tears, while at her accents creptA sweetness to my soul, intense, divine."Is this thy wisdom, to parade thy pain?No longer weep! hast thou not amply wept?Would that such life were thine as death is mine!" Macgregor. With grief and tears (my soul's proud sovereign's food)I ever nourish still my aching heart;I feel my blanching cheek, and oft I startAs on Love's sharp engraven wound I brood.But she, who e'er on earth unrivall'd stood,Flits o'er my couch, when prostrate by his dartI lie; and there her presence doth impart.Whilst scarce my eyes dare meet their vision'd good,With that fair hand in life I so desired,She stays my eyes' sad tide; her voice's toneAwakes the balm earth ne'er to man can give:And thus she speaks:—"Oh! vain hath wisdom firedThe hopeless mourner's breast; no more bemoan,I am not dead—would thou like me couldst live!" Wollaston.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CXXIV SONNET CXXIV. Quel sempre acerbo ed onorato giorno. HE RECALLS HER AS HE SAW HER WHEN IN TEARS. That ever-painful, ever-honour'd daySo left her living image on my heartBeyond or lover's wit or poet's art,That oft to it will doting memory stray.A gentle pity softening her bright mien,Her sorrow there so sweet and sad was heard,Doubt in the gazer's bosom almost stirr'dGoddess or mortal, which made heaven serene.[Pg 152]Fine gold her hair, her face as sunlit snow,Her brows and lashes jet, twin stars her eyne,Whence the young archer oft took fatal aim;Each loving lip—whence, utterance sweet and lowHer pent grief found—a rose which rare pearls line,Her tears of crystal and her sighs of flame. Macgregor. That ever-honour'd, yet too bitter day,Her image hath so graven in my breast,That only memory can return it dress'dIn living charms, no genius could portray:Her air such graceful sadness did display,Her plaintive, soft laments my ear so bless'd,I ask'd if mortal, or a heavenly guest,Did thus the threatening clouds in smiles array.Her locks were gold, her cheeks were breathing snow,Her brows with ebon arch'd—bright stars her eyes,Wherein Love nestled, thence his dart to aim:Her teeth were pearls—the rose's softest glowDwelt on that mouth, whence woke to speech grief's sighsHer tears were crystal—and her breath was flame. Wollaston.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXV SONNET LXV. Io avrò sempre in odio la fenestra. BETTER IS IT TO DIE HAPPY THAN TO LIVE IN PAIN. Always in hate the window shall I bear,Whence Love has shot on me his shafts at will,Because not one of them sufficed to kill:For death is good when life is bright and fair,But in this earthly jail its term to outwearIs cause to me, alas! of infinite ill;[Pg 87]And mine is worse because immortal still,Since from the heart the spirit may not tear.Wretched! ere this who surely ought'st to knowBy long experience, from his onward courseNone can stay Time by flattery or by force.Oft and again have I address'd it so:Mourner, away! he parteth not too soonWho leaves behind him far his life's calm June. Macgregor.