Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Sunday, June 1, 2014

When Great Trees Fall - Maya Angelou

When Great Trees Fall

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

- Maya Angelou

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Arcobaleno (Rainbow)

Inzuppa 7 pennelli nel tuo cuore di 36 anni finiti ieri 7 aprile
E rallumina il viso disfatto delle antiche stagioni

Tu hai cavalvato la vita come le sirene nichelate dei caroselli da fiera
In giro
Da una città all'altra di filosofia in delirio
D'amore in passione di regalità in miseria
Non c'è chiesa cinematografo redazione o taverna che tu non conosca
Tu hai dormito nel letto d'ogni famiglia

Ci sarebbe da fare un carnavale
Di tutti i dolori
Dimenticati con l'ombrello nei caffè d'Europa
Partiti tra il fumo coi fazzoletti negli sleeping-cars diretti al nord al sud

Paesi ore
Ci sono voci che accompagnan pertutto come la luna e i cani
Ma anche il fischio di una ciminiera
Che rimescola i colori del mattino
E dei sogni
Non si dimentica né il profumo di certe notti affogate nelle ascelle di topazio
Queste fredde giunchiglie che ho sulla tavola accanto all'inchiostro
Eran dipinte sui muri della camera n. 19 nell'Hotel des Anglais a Rouen

Un treno passessiava sul quai notturno
Sotto la nostra finestra
Decapitando i riflessi delle lanterne versicolori
Tra le botti del vino di Sicilia
E le Senna era un giardino di bandiere infiammate

Non c'è più tempo
Lo spazio
È un verme crepuscolare che si raggricchia in una goccia di fosforo
Ogni cosa è presente
Come nel 1902 tu sei a Parigi in una soffitta
Coperto da 35 centimetri quadri di cielo
Liquefatto nel vetro dell'abbaino
La Ville t'offre ancora ogni mattina
Il bouquet fiorito dello Square de Cluny;
Dal boulevard Saint-Germain scoppiante di trams e d'autobus
Arriva la sera a queste campagne la voce briaca della giornalaia
Di rue de la Harpe
<<Pari-cûrses>> <<l'Intransigeant>> <<la Presse>>
Il negozio di Chaussures Raoul fa sempre concorrenza alle stelle
E mi accarezzo le mani tutte intrise dei liquori del tramonto
Come quando pensavo al suicidio vicino alla casa di Rigoletto

Si caro
L'uomo più fortunato è colui che sa vivere nella contingenza al pari dei fiori
Guarda il signore che passa
E accenda il sigaro orgoglioso della sua forza virile
Recuperata nelle quarte pagine dei quotidiani
O quel soldato di cavalleria galoppante nell'indaco della caserma
Con una ciocchetta di lilla fra i denti

L'eternità splende in un volo di mosca
Metti l'uno accanto all'altro i colori dei tuoi occhi
Disegna il tuo arco

La storia è fuggevole come un saluto alla stazione
E l'automobile tricolore del sole batte sempre più invano il suo record fra i vecchi macchinari del cosmo
Tu ti ricordi insieme ad un bacio seminato nel buio
Una vetrina di libraio tedesco Avenue de l'Opéra
E la capra che brucava le ginestre
Sulle ruine della scala del palazzo di Dario a Persepoli
Basta guardarsi intorno
E scriver come si sogna
Per rianimare il volto della nostra gioia

Ricordo tutti i climi che si sono carezzati alla mia pelle d'amore
Raggianti al mio disiderio
Nevi
Mari gialli
Gongs
Carovane
Il carminio di Bombay e l'oro bruciato dell'Iran
Ne porto un geroglifico sull'ala nera
Anima girasole il fenomeno convergere in questo centro di danza
Ma il canto più bello è ancora quello dei sensi nudi

Silenzio musica meridiana
Qui e nel mondo poesia circolare
L'oggi si sposa col sempre
Nel diadema dell'iride che s'alza
Siedo alla mia tavola e fumo e guardo
Ecco una foglia giovane che trilla nel verziere difaccia
I bianchi colombi volteggiano per l'aria come lettere d'amore buttate dalla finestra
Conosco il simbolo la cifra il legame
Elettrico
La simpatia delle cose lontane
Ma ci vorrebbero delle frutta delle luci e delle moltitudini
Per tendere il festone miracolo di questa pasqua

Il giorno si sprofona nella conca scarlatta dell'estate
E non ci sono più parole
Per il ponte di fuoco e di gemme

Giovinezza tu passerai come tutto finisce al teatro
Tant pis Mi farò allora un vestito favoloso di vecchie affichés


Dip 7 brushes into your heart 36 years old yesterday April 7th
And touch up that face worn out by the passing seasons

You have ridden life like a nickel-plated mermaid on a carousel
Whirling
From city to city from philosophy to frenzy
Love to passion royalty to poverty
There isn't a church movie theatre newsdesk or bar you don't know
You've slept in every family's bed

There should be a carnival
Of all the sorrows
Forgotten along with umbrellas in all the cafes of Europe
Gone in a cloud of smoke with handkerchiefs in the sleeping cars of express trains heading north or south

Countries hours
There are voices that follow you everywhere like the moon or a dog
Even the whistle of a smokestack
That stirs the colours of the morning
And of dreams
You won't forget or the scent of certain nights drowned in topaz armpits
These cold narcissus that I keep on the table by the inkwell
Were painted on the walls of Room 19 of the Hotel des Angalis in Rouen

A train rambling along the quay late at night
Beneath our window
Beheaded the reflections of multicoloured lanterns
Among casks of Sicilian wine
And the Seine was a garden of blazing flags

There is no more time
Space
Is a twilight worm coiled in a drop of phosphorous
Everything is present
As in 1902 you are in a garret in Paris
Sheltered by 35 square centimetres of sky
Melting across the glass of the skylight
La Ville offers you again each morning
The flowering bouquet of the Square de Cluny
From Boulevard Saint-Germain exploding with trams and buses
Every evening you hear the hoarse cry of the paperboy
From Rue de la Harpe
"Pari-cûrses" "l'Intransigeant" "la Presse"
The shoestore Chaussures Raoul still rivals the stars
And I rub my hands stained with the liquors of sunset
Like that time I thought about suicide near Rigoletto's house

Yes my dear
The most fortunate man knows how to live with uncertainty like the flowers
Look at that gentleman strolling past
As he lights his cigar proud of his manly vigour
Restored by the fourth-page spreads in the daily papers
Or that trooper galloping through the indigo darkness of his barracks
A sprig of lilac between his teeth

Eternity shines in the light of a housefly
Place the colours of your eyes side by side
And sketch the arch

History is as fleeting as a nod at the train station
And the tricolour car of the sun keeps breaking its own record pointlessly amid the used machinery of the cosmos
You remember along with a kiss planted in the darkness
The window of a German bookseller in the Avenue de l'Opéra
And the goat grazing on yellow broom
Among the ruined stairs of Darius's palace at Persepolis
You need only look around
And write from your dreams
To revive the face of our joy

I remember all the climates that caressed my skin like a lover
Shimmering on my desire
Snows
Yellow seas
Gongs
Caravans
Carmine of Bombay burnt gold of Iran
I carry their hieroglyph on this black wing
Sunflower soul the phenomenon converges here in the centre of this dance
But the most beautiful song is still that of the naked senses

Silence music of the south
Here and in the world circular poetry
Today marries Always
In the crown of the rising rainbow
I sit at my table and I smoke and stare
A young leaf trills in the garden right in front of me
White doves flutter through the air like love letters thrown from the window
I know the symbol the code the electrical
Connection
The attraction of faraway things
But we need fruit and lights and crowds
To festoon this Easter with miracles

The day sinks into the scarlet basin of summer
And there are no more words
For that bridge of fire and jewels

My youth will pass like the end of every play
Tant pis I'll make myself a fabulous suit out of old posters

- Ardengo Soffici

Monday, November 19, 2012

Le rondine - The Swallows

in deliziose cappe di raso nero
dattilografavano il risveglio
dettato dall'aurora

in refreshing capes of black satin
they're typing out the new aubade
daybreak just dictated

- Farfa

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Un raggio di sole

'Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra
trafitto da un raggio di sole:
ed è subito sera.'


'Everyone stands alone at the heart of the Earth
transfixed by a ray of sunlight,
and suddenly it is evening.'
 

- Salvatore Quasimodo

Sunday, October 28, 2012

L'infinito

Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle,
E questa siepe, che da tanta parte
Dell'ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
Spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
Silenzi, e profondissima quiete
Io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco
Il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
Infinito silenzio a questa voce
Vo comparando: e mi sovvien l'eterno,
E le morte stagioni, e la presente
E viva, e il suon di lei. Cosi tra questa
Immensita s'annega il pensier mio:
E il naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare.

Always dear to me was this lonely hill,
And this hedge, which from me so great a part
Of the farthest horizon excludes the gaze.
But as I sit and watch, I invent in my mind
endless spaces beyond, and superhuman
silences, and profoundest quiet;
wherefore my heart
almost loses itself in fear. And as I hear the wind
rustle through these plants, I compare
that infinite silence to this voice:
and I recall to mind eternity,
And the dead seasons, and the one present
And alive, and the sound of it. So in this
Immensity my thinking drowns:
And to shipwreck is sweet for me in this sea.

- Giacomo Leopardi

Friday, October 26, 2012

Italian Food

Kind of hate and kind of love this children's poem by Shel Silverstein.

Italian Food

Oh, how I love Italian food.
I eat it all the time,
Not just 'cause how good it tastes
But 'cause how good it rhymes.
Minestrone, cannelloni,
Macaroni, rigatoni,
Spaghettini, scallopini,
Escarole, braciole,
Insalata, cremolata, manicotti,
Marinara, carbonara,
Shrimp francese, Bolognese,
Ravioli, mostaccioli,
Mozzarella, tagliatelle,
Fried zucchini, rollatini,
Fettuccine, green linguine,
Tortellini, Tetrazzini,
Oops—I think I split my jeani.

- Shel Silverstein

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Cadenabbia, Lake Como

No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks
The silence of the summer day,
As by the loveliest of all lakes
I while the idle hours away.

I pace the leafy colonnade

Where level branches of the plane
Above me weave a roof of shade
Impervious to the sun and rain.

At times a sudden rush of air

Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead,
And gleams of sunshine toss and flare
Like torches down the path I tread.

By Somariva's garden gate

I make the marble stairs my seat,
And hear the water, as I wait,
Lapping the steps beneath my feet.

The undulation sinks and swells

Along the stony parapets,
And far away the floating bells
Tinkle upon the fisher's nets.

Silent and slow, by tower and town

The freighted barges come and go
Their pendent shadows gliding down

By town and tower submerged below.

The hills sweep upward from the shore,

With villas scattered one by one
Upon their wooded spurs, and lower
Bellagio blazing in the sun.

And dimly seen, a tangled mass

Of walls and woods, of light and shade,
Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass
Varenna with its white cascade.

I ask myself, Is this a dream?

Will it all vanish into air?
Is there a land of such supreme
And perfect beauty anywhere?

Sweet vision! Do not fade away;

Linger until my heart shall take
Into itself the summer day,
And all the beauty of the lake.

Linger until upon my brain

Is stamped an image of the scene,
Then fade into the air again,
And be as if thou hadst not been.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Ricca

Ca poi la terra po essere ricca
Se eti riccu cinc' a natu
E no riccu pi li soldi a npauta
Ma riccu a npiettu e a ncapu de
Amore

just like the soil is rich
you too are born rich
not because of money in your pocket
but rich in the heart and in the mind
with love

from a Puglian poem

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Venice

There is a glorious City in the sea.
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went,
As to a floating city—steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently—by many a dome,
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings;
The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

- Samuel Rogers

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Gold

'As I came down the Highgate Hill
I met the sun's bravado,
And saw below me, fold on fold,
Grey to pearl and pearl to gold,
This London like a land of old,
The land of Eldorado.'

- Henry Howarth Bashford

Monday, August 27, 2012

Amore

Ego tibi monstrabo amatorium
sine medicamento, sine herba,
sine ullius veneficae carmine:
Si vis amari, ama

I will reveal to you a love potion
without medicine, without herbs,
without witchcraft:
If you want to be loved, love.

- Hecato of Rhodes (philosopher of the early first century BC)

Saturday, August 25, 2012

The Coliseum

I do remember me, that in my youth,
When I was wandering,—upon such a night
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; 
The trees which grew along the broken arches
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar
The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and
More near from out the Caesar's palace came
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,
Of distant sentinels the fitful song
Begun and died upon the gentle wind.
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood
Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt,
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst
A grove which springs through levelled battlements,
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection,
While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which softened down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and filled up,
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old,—
The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.

- Lord Byron

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Venice


I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was;—her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone—but Beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade—but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away—
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;
And, annual marriage now no more renewed,
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,
Neglected garment of her widowhood!
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood
Stand, but in mockery of his withered power,
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued,
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour
When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;
But is not Doria's menace come to pass?
Are they not bridled?—Venice, lost and won,
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done,
Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose!
Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun,
Even in destruction's death, her foreign foes,
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.

- Lord Byron

Sunday, August 19, 2012

I mesi (Months)

This is a traditional Italian nursery rhyme about i mesi, the months of the year.

Gennaio con febbraio fa il paio
febbraietto freddo e maledetto,
marzo è pazzo,
aprile dolce dormire,
maggio è paggio,
giugno la falce in pugno,
luglio canta il cuculo,
agosto moglie mia non ti conosco,
settembre la notte al dì contende,
ottobre chi vuole si copre,
novembre all’inverno si arrende,
dicembre, davanti ti ghiaccia
e dietro t’offende.

January and February are a couple,
Little February, cursed and cold,
March is crazy,
April’s sweetly sleeping,
May is the valet,
June, the scythe in hand,
July, the cuckoo sings,
August, my wife, I don’t know you,
September, the night fights the day,
October, whoever wants covers himself up,
November surrenders to winter,
December, freezes you in the front
and batters you on the back.


gennaio: January
febbraio: February
marzo: March
aprile: April
maggio: May
giugno: June
luglio: July
agosto: August
settembre: September
novembre: November
dicembre: December

Sunday, August 12, 2012

X Agosto

The Italian poet Giovanni Pascoli's father was mysteriously killed on La Notte di San Lorenzo while returning home from a farmers' fair in 1867. His son wrote this beautiful poem in memory of his father. 

X Agosto

San Lorenzo, io lo so perché tanto
di stelle per l’aria tranquilla
arde e cade, perché sì gran pianto
nel concavo cielo sfavilla.

Ritornava una rondine al tetto:
l’uccisero: cadde tra spini;
ella aveva nel becco un insetto:
la cena de’ suoi rondinini.

Ora è là, come in croce, che tende
quel verme a quel cielo lontano;
e il suo nido è nell’ombra che attende,
che pigola sempre più piano.

Anche un uomo tornava al suo nido:
l’uccisero: disse: ‘Perdono’;
e restò negli aperti occhi un grido:
portava due bambole in dono…

Ora là, nella casa romita,
lo aspettano, aspettano invano:
egli immobile, attonito, addita
le bambole al cielo lontano.

E tu, Cielo, dall’alto dei mondi
sereni, infinito, immortale,
oh! d’un pianto di stelle lo inondi
quest’atomo opaco del Male.


The 10th of August

San Lorenzo, I know why so many stars are burning and falling in the tranquil air, why such great weeping sparkles in the concave sky.

A swallow was returning to its home: they killed her: she fell amongst thorns; in her beak she had an insect: the dinner for her little swallows.

Now she is there, as if on a cross, holding out that worm to the distant heaven; and her nest is in the shadow waiting, chirping ever more softly.

A man was also going back to his nest: they killed him: he said: ‘Forgiveness’; and in his open eyes there remained a scream: he was bringing two dolls as presents…

Now there, in the remote house, they are waiting for him, waiting in vain: he, motionless, astonished, points the dolls to the distant heaven.

And you, Heaven, from the heights of serene worlds, infinite, immortal, oh! with a weeping of stars you flood this atom, opaque with Evil.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Travels By The Fireside

The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
Points to the misty main.
It drives me in upon myself
And to the fireside gleams,
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,
And still more pleasant dreams.
I read whatever bards have sung
Of lands beyond the sea,
And the bright days when I was young
Come thronging back to me.
In fancy I can hear again
The Alpine torrent's roar,
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,
The sea at Elsinore.
I see the convent's gleaming wall
Rise from its groves of pine,
And towers of old cathedrals tall,
And castles by the Rhine.
I journey on by park and spire,
Beneath centennial trees,
Through fields with poppies all on fire,
And gleams of distant seas.
I fear no more the dust and heat,
No more I fear fatigue,
While journeying with another's feet
O'er many a lengthening league.
Let others traverse sea and land,
And toil through various climes,
I turn the world round with my hand
Reading these poets' rhymes.
From them I learn whatever lies
Beneath each changing zone,
And see, when looking with their eyes,
Better than with mine own.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Journey's End

In western lands beneath the Sun
The flowers may rise in Spring,
The trees may bud, the waters run,
The merry finches sing.
Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night,
And swaying branches bear
The Elven-stars as jewels white
Amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey's end I lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.

- J.R.R. Tolkien

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Home

'Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air;
And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair;
And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome;
But when it comes to living, there is no place like home.'

- Henry Van Dyke

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Amalfi

Sweet the memory is to me
Of a land beyond the sea,
Where the waves and mountains meet,
Where, amid her mulberry-trees,
Sits Amalfi in the heat,
Bathing ever her white feet
In the tideless summer seas.
In the middle of the town,
From its fountains in the hills,
Tumbling through the narrow gorge,
The Canneto rushes down,
Turns the great wheels of the mills,
Lifts the hammers of the forge.

'Tis a stairway, not a street,
That ascends the deep ravine,
Where the torrent leaps between
Rocky walls that almost meet.
Toiling up from stair to stair
Peasant girls their burdens bear;
Sunburnt daughters of the soil,
Stately figures tall and straight,
What inexorable fate
Dooms them to this life of toil?

Lord of vineyards and of lands,
Far above the convent stands.
On its terraced walk aloof
Leans a monk with folded hands,
Placid, satisfied, serene,
Looking down upon the scene
Over wall and red-tiled roof;
Wondering unto what good end
All this toil and traffic tend,
And why all men cannot be
Free from care and free from pain,
And the sordid love of gain,
And as indolent as he.

Where are now the freighted barks
From the marts of east and west?
Where the knights in iron sarks
Journeying to the Holy Land,
Glove of steel upon the hand,
Cross of crimson on the breast?
Where the pomp of camp and court?
Where the pilgrims with their prayers?
Where the merchants with their wares,
And their gallant brigantines
Sailing safely into port
Chased by corsair Algerines?

Vanished like a fleet of cloud,
Like a passing trumpet-blast,
Are those splendours of the past,
And the commerce and the crowd!
Fathoms deep beneath the seas
Lie the ancient wharves and quays
Swallowed by the engulfing waves;
Silent streets and vacant halls,
Ruined roofs and towers and walls;
Hidden from all mortal eyes
Deep the sunken city lies:
Even cities have their graves!

This is an enchanted land!
Round the headlands far away
Sweeps the blue Salernian bay
With its sickle of white sand:
Further still and furthermost
On the dim-discovered coast
Paestum with its ruins lies,
And its roses all in bloom
Seem to tinge the fatal skies
Of that lonely land of doom.

On his terrace, high in air,
Nothing doth the good monk care
For such worldly themes as these.
From the garden just below
Little puffs of perfume blow,
And a sound is in his ears
Of the murmur of the bees
In the shining chestnut-trees;
Nothing else he heeds or hears.
All the landscape seems to swoon
In the happy afternoon;
Slowly o'er his senses creep
The encroaching waves of sleep,
And he sinks as sank the town,
Unresisting, fathoms down,
Into caverns cool and deep!

Walled about with drifts of snow,
Hearing the fierce north wind blow,
Seeing all the landscape white,
And the river cased in ice,
Comes this memory of delight,
Comes this vision unto me
Of a long-lost Paradise
In the land beyond the sea.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Friday, July 20, 2012

At Venice

On the Lido
On her still lake the city sits
While bark and boat beside her flits,
Nor hears, her soft siesta taking,
The Adriatic billows breaking.

In the Piazza at night
O beautiful beneath the magic moon
To walk the watery way of palaces;
O beautiful, o'er-vaulted with gemmed blue
This spacious court; with colour and with gold,
With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points,
And crosses multiplex, and tips, and balls,
(Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix,
Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused;)
Fantastically perfect this lone pile
Of oriental glory; these long ranges
Of classic chiselling; this gay flickering crowd,
And the calm Campanile - Beautiful!
O beautiful!

- Arthur Hugh Clough