classic poetry

Is It Possible

POSTED IN classic poetry June 21, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is It Possible

Is it possible
That so high debate,
So sharp, so sore, and of such rate,
Should end so soon and was begun so late?
Is it possible?

Is it possible
So cruel intent,
So hasty heat and so soon spent,
From love to hate, and thence for to relent?
Is it possible?

Is it possible
That any may find
Within one heart so diverse mind,
To change or turn as weather and wind?
Is it possible?

Is it possible
To spy it in an eye
That turns as oft as chance on die,
The truth whereof can any try?
Is it possible?

It is possible
For to turn so oft,
To bring that lowest which was most aloft,
And to fall highest yet to light soft:
It is possible.

All is possible
Whoso list believe.
Trust therefore first, and after preve,
As men wed ladies by licence and leave.
All is possible.

 

by Sir Thomas Wyatt

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

POSTED IN classic poetry June 21, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

 

by Maya Angelou

CHANCE MEETINGS

POSTED IN classic poetry June 21, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHANCE MEETINGS

In the mazes of loitering people, the watchful and furtive,
The shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves,
In the drowse of the sunlight, among the low voices,
I suddenly face you,

Your dark eyes return for a space from her who is with you,
They shine into mine with a sunlit desire,
They say an ‘I love you, what star do you live on?’
They smile and then darken,

And silent, I answer ‘You too–I have known you,–I love you!–‘
And the shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves
Interlace with low voices and footsteps and sunlight
To divide us forever. “

by Conrad Aike

LORENZO DE’ MEDICI, 1448-1492

POSTED IN classic poetry June 21, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LORENZO DE’ MEDICI
Sonetto I
I saw my Lady by a purling brook
With laughing maidens, where green branches twined;
O never since that primal, passionate look
Have I beheld her face so soft and kind.
Hence for a space my yearning was content
And my sad soul some consolation knew;
Alas, my heart remained although I went,
And constantly my pain and sorrow grew.
    Early the sun sank down in western skies
And left the earth to woeful hours obscure,
Afar my sun hath also veiled her ray;
Upon the mind first bliss most heavily lies,
How short a while all mortal joys endure,
But not so soon doth memory pass away.

Sonetto II
How every hope of ours is raised in vain,
How spoiled the plans we laid so fair and well,
How ignorance throughout the earth doth reign,
Death, who is mistress of us all, can tell.
In song and dance and jest some pass their days,
Some vow their talents unto gentle arts,
Some hold the world in scorn and all its ways.
Some hide the impulses that move their hearts.
    Vain thoughts and wishes, cares of every kind
Greatly upon this erring earth prevail
In various presence after nature’s lore;
Fortune doth fashion with inconstant mind,
All things are transient here below and frail.
Death only standeth fast for evermore.

Sonetto III

O leave, Cithera, thy beloved isle,
O leave thy gentle kingdom, come away
And rest, O goddess, by this rill awhile
That sprinkleth every tender green grass spray.
Come to this shady place, to this soft breeze
Awaking murmurous music in each tree,
To songs of mating birds, sweet-tuned to please,
O let this country thine elected be!
   And, if thou seek these limpid streams one day,
O bring thy darling son along with thee,
Because as yet this earth ignores his fame;
Steal from Diana her chaste nymphs away,
Who go untrammelled now and danger-free,
Scorning the puissant virtue of Love’s name.

Trionfo

Youth is sweet and well
But doth speed away!
Let who will be gay,
To-morrow, none can tell.
   Bacchus and his Fair,
Contented with their fate,
Chase both time and care,
Loving soon and late;
High and low estate
With the nymphs at play;
Let who will be gay,
To-morrow, none can tell.
   Laughing satyrs all
Set a hundred snares,
Lovelorn dryads fall
In them unawares:
105 Glad with wine, in pairs
They dance the hours away:
Let who will be gay,
To-morrow, none can tell.
   Not unwillingly
Were these nymphs deceived:
From Love do but flee
Graceless hearts aggrieved:
Deceivers and deceived
Together wend their way.
Let who will be gay,
To-morrow, none can tell.
    Fat Silenus nears
On an ass astride:
Full of wine and years,
Come and see him ride:
He lolls from side to side
But gleefully alway:
Let who will be gay,
To-morrow, none can tell.
   Midas following,
Turneth all to gold:
What can treasure bring
To a heart that’s cold?
And what joy unfold
For who thirsteth, pray?
Let who will be gay,
To-morrow, none can tell.
   Ears be very bold,
Count not on to-morrow:
Let both young and old,
Lads and lassies, borrow
Joy and banish sorrow.
Doleful thoughts and grey:
107 Let who will be gay,
To-morrow, none can tell.
    Lads and lassies all,
Love and Bacchus Hail!
Dance and song befall!
Pain and sadness fail!
Tender hearts prevail,
Happen then what may!
Let who will be gay,
To-morrow, none can tell.
   Youth is sweet and well
But doth speed away.

Canzone a ballo

Let him who is no lover
Go hence and seek another
Floor on which to dance,
He merits not good chance!
   Be there one who knows not Love,
Let him hasten from this place,
For that heart is poor in grace
Which fond ardours doth not prove.
Be there one whose fires burn low,
Let him breathe on them, and so
They blaze again, he need not go!
   Love presideth o’er this feast,
Those who serve him gather round.
Be there one by envy bound,
Take he leave, for thus at least
He will go and not be chased!
Only those whom Love hath graced
In so sweet a bower are placed.
   Be there one who is ashamed
Of loving, let her ponder fair
109 And she will soon become aware
To love is to be nobly famed;
For love all homage doth deserve;
Ingratitude doth shame reserve.
   Be there one perchance so vile
As to flee away for fright,
Let her understand aright,
No such coward fancies wile
In gentle hearts! Nature doth bring
Us beauty; foolish ’twere to fling.
Away the roses of the spring!

LORENZO DE’ MEDICI
Sonetto I

Vidi madonna sopra un fresco rio
tra verdi frondi e liete donne starsi;
tal che dalla prima ora in qua che io arsi
mai vidi il viso suo più bello e pio.
Questo contentò in parte il mio desio,
e all’ alma diè cagion di consolarsi;
ma poi, partendo, il cor vidi restarsi;
crebbon vie più i pensier e ’l dolor mio.
   Chè già il sole inchinava all’ occidente,
e lasciava la terra ombrosa e oscura;
onde il mio sole l’ ascose in altra parte.
Fe’ il primo ben più trista assai la mente:
ah quanto poco al mondo ogni ben dura!
ma il rimembrar si tosto non si parte.

Sonetto II
Quanto sia vana ogni speranza nostra,
quanto fallace ciaschedun disegno,
quanto sia il mondo d’ ignoranza pregno
la meastra del tutto, morte, il mostra.
Altri si vive in canti e ’n balli e ’n giostra;
altri a cosa gentil muove lo ingegno;
altri il mondo ha e le sue cose a sdegno;
altri quel che dentro ha, fuor non dimostra.
   Vane cure e pensier, diverse sorte
per la diversità che dà natura,
si vede ciascun tempo al mondo errante:
ogni cosa è fugace e poco dura;
tanto fortuna al mondo è mal costante:
sola sta ferma, e sempre dura, morte.

Sonetto III

Lascia l’ isola tua tanto diletta,
lascia il tuo regno delicato e bello,
Ciprigna dea, e vien sopra il ruscello
che bagna la minuta e verde erbetta.
Viene a quest’ ombra ed alla dolce auretta
che fa mormoreggiar ogni arbuscello,
a’ canti dolci d’ amoroso augello;
questa da te per patria sia eletta.
   E se tu vien tra quest chiare linfe,
sia teco il tuo amato e caro figlio;
chè qui non si conosce il suo valore.
Togli a Diana le sue caste ninfe,
che sciolte or vanno e senz’ alcun periglio,
poco pressando la virtù d’ Amore.

Trionfo

Quant’ é bella giovinezza
che si fugge tuttavia!
chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’ è certezza.
   Quest’ è Bacco e Arianna,
belli, e l’ un dell’ altro ardenti;
perchè ’l tempo fugge e ’nganna,
sempre insieme stan contenti.
Queste ninfe e altre genti
sono allegre tuttavia:
chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’ è certezza.
   Questi lieti satiretti
delle ninfe innamorati,
per caverne e per boschetti
han lor posto cento aguati:
104 or, da Bacco riscaldati,
ballan, saltan tuttavia;
chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’ è certezza.
   Queste ninfe hanno ancor caro
da loro essere ingannate:
non puon far a Amor riparo
se non genti rozze e ’ngrate:
ora insieme mescolate
fanno festa tuttavia:
chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’ è certezza.
   Questa soma, che vien dreto
sopra l’ asino, è Sileno:
cosi vecchio è ebbro e lieto,
già di carne e d’ anni pieno:
se no può star ritto, almeno
ride e gode tuttavia:
chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’ è certezza.
   Mida vien dopo costoro:
ciò che tocca, oro diventa:
e che giova aver tesoro,
poichè l’ uom non si contenta?
che dolcezza vuoi che senta
chi ha sete tuttavia?
chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’ è certezza.
   Ciascun apra ben gli orecchi,
di doman nessun si paschi;
oggi siam, giovani e vecchi,
lieti ognun, femmine e maschi;
ogni tristo pensier caschi;
facciam festa tutavia:
106 chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’ è certezza.
   Donne e giovanetti amanti,
viva Bacco e viva Amore!
ciascun suoni, balli e canti!
arda di dolcezza il core!
non fatica, non dolore!
quel c’ ha esser convien sia;
chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’ è certezza.
   Quant’ è bella giovinezza
che si fugge tuttavia.

Canzone a ballo

Chi non è innamorato
esca di questo ballo,
che saria fallo a stare in sì bel lato.
   Se alcuno è qui che non conosca amore,
parta di questo loco;
perch’ esser non potria mai gentil core
chi non sente quel foco;
se alcun ne sente poco,
sì le sue fiamme accenda
che ognun lo intenda, e non sarà scacciato.
   Amore in mezzo a questo ballo stia,
e chi gli è servo intorno.
E se alcuno ha sospetto o gelosia,
non faccia qui soggiorno;
se non, farebbe storno.
Ognun ci s’ innamori,
o esca fuor del loco tanto ornato.
   Se alcuna per vergogna si ritiene
di non s’ innamorare,
vergognerassi, s’ ella pensa bene
108 più tosto a non lo fare;
non è vergogna amara
chi di servire agogna;
saria vergogna a chi gli fusse ingrato.
   Se alcuna ce ne fussi tanto vile,
che lassi per paura;
pensi bene, che un core alto e gentile
queste cose non cura:
non ha dato natura
tanta bellezza a voi
acciò che poi sia il tempo mal usato.

by Lorenzo de Medici

Approaching Night

POSTED IN classic poetry June 17, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Approaching Night

Its strife I cannot bear to see,
Its very praises hurt me more
Than een its coldness did before,
Its hollow ways torment me now
And start a cold sweat on my brow,
Its noise I cannot bear to hear,
Its joy is trouble to my ear,
Its ways I cannot bear to see,
Its crowds are solitudes to me.
O, how I long to be agen
That poor and independent man,
With labour’s lot from morn to night
And books to read at candle light;
That followed labour in the field
From light to dark when toil could yield
Real happiness with little gain,
Rich thoughtless health unknown to pain:
Though, leaning on my spade to rest,
I’ve thought how richer folks were blest
And knew not quiet was the best.

Go with your tauntings, go;
Neer think to hurt me so;
I’ll scoff at your disdain.
Cold though the winter blow,
When hills are free from snow
It will be spring again.

So go, and fare thee well,
Nor think ye’ll have to tell
Of wounded hearts from me,
Locked up in your hearts cell.
Mine still at home doth dwell
In its first liberty.

Bees sip not at one flower,
Spring comes not with one shower,
Nor shines the sun alone
Upon one favoured hour,
But with unstinted power
Makes every day his own.

And for my freedom’s sake
With such I’ll pattern take,
And rove and revel on.
Your gall shall never make
Me honied paths forsake;
So prythee get thee gone.

And when my toil is blest
And I find a maid possest
Of truth that’s not in thee,
Like bird that finds its nest
I’ll stop and take my rest;
And love as she loves me.

 

 

John Clare

Unromantic Love

POSTED IN classic poetry May 28, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is no stillness in this wood.

The quiet of this clearing
Is the denial of my hearing
The sounds I should.

There is no vision in this glade.
This tower of sun revealing
The timbered scaffoldage is stealing
Essence from shade.

Only my love is love’s ideal.
The love I could discover
In these recesses knows no lover,
Is the unreal,

The undefined, unanalysed,
Unabsolute many;
It is antithesis of any,
In none comprised.

J. V. Cunningham

Desiderata

POSTED IN classic poetry May 9, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Words for life

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines

POSTED IN classic poetry April 30, 2013

I Don’t Know How Many Souls I Have

POSTED IN classic poetry April 25, 2013

 

 

I don’t know how many souls I have.
I’ve changed at every moment.
I always feel like a stranger.
I’ve never seen or found myself.
From being so much, I have only soul.
A man who has soul has no calm.
A man who sees is just what he sees.
A man who feels is not who he is.

Attentive to what I am and see,
I become them and stop being I.
Each of my dreams and each desire
Belongs to whoever had it, not me.
I am my own landscape,
I watch myself journey—
Various, mobile, and alone.
Here where I am I can’t feel myself.

That’s why I read, as a stranger,
My being as if it were pages.
Not knowing what will come
And forgetting what has passed,
I note in the margin of my reading
What I thought I felt.
Rereading, I wonder: “Was that me?”
God knows, because he wrote it.

Fernando Pessoa

one’s not half two. It’s two are halves of one

POSTED IN classic poetry April 25, 2013

 

one’s not half two. It’s two are halves of one:
which halves reintegrating, shall occur
no death and any quantity; but than
all numerable mosts the actual more

minds ignorant of stern miraculous
this every truth-beware of heartless them
(given the scalpel, they dissect a kiss;
or, sold the reason, they undream a dream)

one is the song which fiends and angels sing:
all murdering lies by mortals told make two.
Let liars wilt, repaying life they’re loaned;
we(by a gift called dying born)must grow

deep in dark least ourselves remembering
love only rides his year.
All lose, whole find

e.e.cummings

WHY do we create a mask? Only to meet the mask of others?

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