Written by
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |
THE only one whom, Lida, thou canst love,
Thou claim'st, and rightly claim'st, for only thee;
He too is wholly thine; since doomed to rove
Far from thee, in life's turmoils nought I see
Save a thin veil, through which thy form I view,
As though in clouds; with kindly smile and true,
It cheers me, like the stars eterne that gleam
Across the northern-lights' far-flick'ring beam.
1789.*
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Written by
Robert Herrick |
Fled are the frosts, and now the fields appear
Reclothed in fresh and verdant diaper;
Thaw'd are the snows; and now the lusty Spring
Gives to each mead a neat enamelling;
The palms put forth their gems, and every tree
Now swaggers in her leafy gallantry.
The while the Daulian minstrel sweetly sings
With warbling notes her Terean sufferings.
--What gentle winds perspire! as if here
Never had been the northern plunderer
To strip the trees and fields, to their distress,
Leaving them to a pitied nakedness.
And look how when a frantic storm doth tear
A stubborn oak or holm, long growing there,--
But lull'd to calmness, then succeeds a breeze
That scarcely stirs the nodding leaves of trees;
So when this war, which tempest-like doth spoil
Our salt, our corn, our honey, wine, and oil,
Falls to a temper, and doth mildly cast
His inconsiderate frenzy off, at last,
The gentle dove may, when these turmoils cease,
Bring in her bill, once more, the branch of Peace.
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
with landbound legs a wish
for the easy flow of a river - not
the clambering up crags to seek
more favour from the sun
(or long-haired moon) harped for
since those sparks of who am i
first clicked through consciousness
how the river sidles round
rocks blocking the painful straight
seems to brush aside
all snags disrupting its ambition
to be sea - certain from its source
downwardness is good - legs don’t have
that gift (being boned with doubt)
rivers in their waywardness
become a rattling cage of tigers
when the storm god snarls
legs are happy then
to have hard ground to run away on
legs and rivers you could say
should show compassion for each other
as if legs themselves aren’t rivers
when (from hip to toe) the energy
runs down from impulses
the high brain sources - summer’s joys
or winter’s nobbling aches
make the same ground safe
or fearful - as when the river legs it
legs or rivers - the game’s alike
seasons distort the flow
in age the river’s more appealing
(legs have a way of silting up)
after the high ground’s turmoils
you hope for the sanctity of meadows
a kind of green relief
legs feed on past dreams (now
kick a ball the leg drops off)
rivers are geared to what comes next
even in the sea’s maw
hope is on their lips (ever) - legs
rest on their elegiac laurels
with the weight off them they flow best
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