Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Translates Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Now List to my Morning's Romanza

 1
NOW list to my morning’s romanza—I tell the signs of the Answerer; 
To the cities and farms I sing, as they spread in the sunshine before me.
A young man comes to me bearing a message from his brother; How shall the young man know the whether and when of his brother? Tell him to send me the signs.
And I stand before the young man face to face, and take his right hand in my left hand, and his left hand in my right hand, And I answer for his brother, and for men, and I answer for him that answers for all, and send these signs.
2 Him all wait for—him all yield up to—his word is decisive and final, Him they accept, in him lave, in him perceive themselves, as amid light, Him they immerse, and he immerses them.
Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape, people, animals, The profound earth and its attributes, and the unquiet ocean, (so tell I my morning’s romanza;) All enjoyments and properties, and money, and whatever money will buy, The best farms—others toiling and planting, and he unavoidably reaps, The noblest and costliest cities—others grading and building, and he domiciles there; Nothing for any one, but what is for him—near and far are for him, the ships in the offing, The perpetual shows and marches on land, are for him, if they are for any body.
He puts things in their attitudes; He puts to-day out of himself, with plasticity and love; He places his own city, times, reminiscences, parents, brothers and sisters, associations, employment, politics, so that the rest never shame them afterward, nor assume to command them.
He is the answerer: What can be answer’d he answers—and what cannot be answer’d, he shows how it cannot be answer’d.
3 A man is a summons and challenge; (It is vain to skulk—Do you hear that mocking and laughter? Do you hear the ironical echoes?) Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, pleasure, pride, beat up and down, seeking to give satisfaction; He indicates the satisfaction, and indicates them that beat up and down also.
Whichever the sex, whatever the season or place, he may go freshly and gently and safely, by day or by night; He has the pass-key of hearts—to him the response of the prying of hands on the knobs.
His welcome is universal—the flow of beauty is not more welcome or universal than he is; The person he favors by day, or sleeps with at night, is blessed.
4 Every existence has its idiom—everything has an idiom and tongue; He resolves all tongues into his own, and bestows it upon men, and any man translates, and any man translates himself also; One part does not counteract another part—he is the joiner—he sees how they join.
He says indifferently and alike, How are you, friend? to the President at his levee, And he says, Good-day, my brother! to Cudge that hoes in the sugar-field, And both understand him, and know that his speech is right.
He walks with perfect ease in the Capitol, He walks among the Congress, and one Representative says to another, Here is our equal, appearing and new.
Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic, And the soldiers suppose him to be a soldier, and the sailors that he has follow’d the sea, And the authors take him for an author, and the artists for an artist, And the laborers perceive he could labor with them and love them; No matter what the work is, that he is the one to follow it, or has follow’d it, No matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and sisters there.
The English believe he comes of their English stock, A Jew to the Jew he seems—a Russ to the Russ—usual and near, removed from none.
Whoever he looks at in the traveler’s coffee-house claims him, The Italian or Frenchman is sure, and the German is sure, and the Spaniard is sure, and the island Cuban is sure; The engineer, the deck-hand on the great lakes, or on the Mississippi, or St.
Lawrence, or Sacramento, or Hudson, or Paumanok Sound, claims him.
The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood; The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see themselves in the ways of him—he strangely transmutes them, They are not vile any more—they hardly know themselves, they are so grown.


Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Mohammed Bek Hadjetlache

 THIS Mohammedan colonel from the Caucasus yells with his voice and wigwags with his arms.
The interpreter translates, “I was a friend of Kornilov, he asks me what to do and I tell him.
” A stub of a man, this Mohammedan colonel … a projectile shape … a bald head hammered … “Does he fight or do they put him in a cannon and shoot him at the enemy?” This fly-by-night, this bull-roarer who knows everybody.
“I write forty books, history of Islam, history of Europe, true religion, scientific farming, I am the Roosevelt of the Caucasus, I go to America and ride horses in the moving pictures for $500,000, you get $50,000 …” “I have 30,000 acres in the Caucasus, I have a stove factory in Petrograd the bolsheviks take from me, I am an old friend of the Czar, I am an old family friend of Clemenceau …” These hands strangled three fellow workers for the czarist restoration, took their money, sent them in sacks to a river bottom … and scandalized Stockholm with his gang of strangler women.
Mid-sea strangler hands rise before me illustrating a wish, “I ride horses for the moving pictures in America, $500,000, and you get ten per cent …” This rider of fugitive dawns.
Written by Ernest Dowson | Create an image from this poem

Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam

 They are not long, the weeping and the laughter, 
 Love and desire and hate: 
I think they have no portion in us after 
 We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses: Out of a misty dream Our path emerges for a while, then closes Within a dream.
[The title translates, from the Latin, as 'The brief sum of life forbids us the hope of enduring long' and is from a work by Horace]
Written by Ernest Dowson | Create an image from this poem

Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae

 Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine 
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed 
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; 
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, 
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head: 
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
[The title translates, from the Latin, as 'I am no more the man I was in the reign of the Good Cynara']
Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Create an image from this poem

What Birds Plunge Through Is Not The Intimate Space

 What birds plunge through is not the intimate space,
in which you see all Forms intensified.
(In the Open, denied, you would lose yourself, would disappear into that vastness.
) Space reaches from us and translates Things: to become the very essence of a tree, throw inner space around it, from that space that lives in you.
Encircle it with restraint.
It has no limits.
For the first time, shaped in your renouncing, it becomes fully tree.



Book: Shattered Sighs