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Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű zóna

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I Had a Dove
by John Keats

I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:
O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;
Sweet little red feet! why should you die –
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You liv'd alone in the forest-tree,
Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

Kapcsolódó alkotók: John Keats

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Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Requiem
by John Updike

It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise — depths unplumbable!”

Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
“I thought he died a while ago.”

For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.

Kapcsolódó könyvek: John Updike: Végpont és más versek · John Updike: Endpoint and Other Poems

John Updike: Végpont és más versek
John Updike: Endpoint and Other Poems

Kapcsolódó alkotók: John Updike

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Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Al Aaraaf
by Edgar Allan Poe
részlet

O! NOTHING earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy—
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill—
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell—
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours—
Yet all the beauty—all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers—
Adorn yon world afar, afar—
The wandering star.
[…]

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Edgar Allan Poe

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Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

The Triumph of Death
by William Shakespeare

No longer mourn for me when I am dead.
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.

Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;

Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: William Shakespeare

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Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Not
by Erin Hanson

You are not your age,
Nor the size of clothes you wear,
You are not a weight,
Or the color of your hair.
You are not your name,
Or the dimples in your cheeks.
You are all the books you read,
And all the words you speak.
You are your croaky morning voice,
And the smiles you try to hide.
You’re the sweetness in your laughter,
And every tear you’ve cried.
You’re the songs you sing so loudly
When you know you’re all alone.
You’re the places that you’ve been to,
And the one that you call home.
You’re the things that you believe in,
And the people whom you love.
You’re the photos in your bedroom,
And the future you dream of.
You’re made of so much beauty,
But it seems that you forgot
When you decided that you were defined
By all the things you’re not.

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Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

To Margaret
by Edgar Allan Poe

Who hath seduced thee to this foul revolt
From the pure well of Beauty undefiled?
So banish from true wisdom to prefer
Such squalid wit to honourable rhyme?
To write? To scribble? Nonsense and no more?
I will not write upon this argument
To write is human – not to write divine.

.
This may be an unfinished poem, never published in Poe's lifetime. In the original manuscript, dated 1827, Poe makes references to classical works in each of his lines. The seven-line poem, according to Poe's notes, refers to John Milton's Paradise Lost, William Shakespeare and Alexander Pope.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Edgar Allan Poe

Hirdetés
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Cendrillon0002
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Yo voy soñando caminos

Yo voy soñando caminos

de la tarde. ¡Las colinas

doradas, los verdes pinos,

las polvorientas encinas!…

¿Adónde el camino irá?

Yo voy cantando, viajero

a lo largo del sendero…

– la tarde cayendo está-.

"En el corazón tenía

la espina de una pasión;

logré arrancármela un día:

ya no siento el corazón".

Y todo el campo un momento

se queda, mudo y sombrío,

meditando. Suena el viento

en los álamos del río.

La tarde más se oscurece;

y el camino que serpea

y débilmente blanquea

se enturbia y desaparece.

Mi cantar vuelve a plañir:

"Aguda espina dorada,

quién te pudiera sentir

en el corazón clavada".

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Antonio Machado

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Cendrillon0002
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

All the world’s a stage (Angol)

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: William Shakespeare

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Cendrillon0002
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Chant d'Automne (Francia)
I
Bientôt nous plongerons dans les froides ténèbres;
Adieu, vive clarté de nos étés trop courts!
J'entends déjà tomber avec des chocs funèbres
Le bois retentissant sur le pavé des cours.

Tout l'hiver va rentrer dans mon être: colère,
Haine, frissons, horreur, labeur dur et forcé,
Et, comme le soleil dans son enfer polaire,
Mon coeur ne sera plus qu'un bloc rouge et glacé.

J'écoute en frémissant chaque bûche qui tombe
L'échafaud qu'on bâtit n'a pas d'écho plus sourd.
Mon esprit est pareil à la tour qui succombe
Sous les coups du bélier infatigable et lourd.

II me semble, bercé par ce choc monotone,
Qu'on cloue en grande hâte un cercueil quelque part.
Pour qui? – C'était hier l'été; voici l'automne!
Ce bruit mystérieux sonne comme un départ

II
J'aime de vos longs yeux la lumière verdâtre,
Douce beauté, mais tout aujourd'hui m'est amer,
t rien, ni votre amour, ni le boudoir, ni l'âtre
Ne me vaut le soleil rayonnant sur la mer.

Et pourtant aimez-moi, tendre coeur! soyez mère,
Même pour un ingrat, même pour un méchant;
Amante ou soeur, soyez la douceur éphémère
D'un glorieux automne ou d'un soleil couchant.

Courte tâche! La tombe attend – elle est avide!
Ah! laissez-moi, mon front posé sur vos genoux,
Goûter, en regrettant l'été blanc et torride,
De l'arrière-saison le rayon jaune et doux!

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Charles Baudelaire

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Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

THE LAKE —— TO ——
by Edgar Allan Poe

In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide earth a spot
The which I could not love the less—
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that tower’d around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody—
Then—ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight—
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define—
Nor Love—although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining—
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.

1827.

Kapcsolódó könyvek: Edgar Allan Poe: The Complete Poetry of Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe: The Complete Poetry of Edgar Allan Poe

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Edgar Allan Poe