Invictus
BY WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
Invictus
William Henley MDCCCXLIX - MCMIII
Nox operit de me
Niger lacum ut polus,
Gratias ago deorum quisquis sit,
Quia invictus animus est.
Et cecidit in re tenues
Quia non clamavit, nec durae.
In casu de bludgeonings
Caput est sanguinum, sed constans reperiaris.
Vltra locum irae et lacrimae
Sed talibus horrorem umbra,
Annis tamen denuntiatione
Invenit et non invenient me interrita fertur.
Non refert quam angusta porta
Quo crimine poenas librum
Ego dominum meum casum
Sed sum princeps animae meae.
Wednesday, 26 October 2016
Friday, 7 October 2016
my morning poem.
She Walks in Beauty
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Thursday, 6 October 2016
my mornin. poem...
in midas ; country..
Meadows of gold dust. The silver
Currents of the Connecticut fan
And meander in bland pleatings under
River-verge farms where rye-heads whiten.
All's polished to a dull luster
In the sulfurous noon. We move
With the languor of idols below
The sky's great bell glass and briefly engrave
Our limbs' image on a field of straw
And goldenrod as on gold leaf.
It might be heaven, this static
Plenitude: apples gold on the bough,
Goldfinch, goldfish, golden tiger cat stock-
Still in one gigantic tapestry—
And lovers affable, dovelike.
But now the water-skiers race,
Bracing their knees. On unseen towlines
They cleave the river's greening patinas;
The mirror quivers to smithereens.
They stunt like clowns in the circus.
So we are hauled, though we would stop
On this amber bank where grasses bleach.
Already the farmer's after his crop,
August gives over its Midas touch,
Wind bares a flintier landscape.
Sylvia Plath
Wednesday, 5 October 2016
my morning poem,,,
winter,
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake.
Robert Louis Stevenson
Tuesday, 4 October 2016
my morning poem,,,
AUTUMN,
by charles baudelaire.
by charles baudelaire.
Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.
I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam:
The echoes are as dull as executioners' drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.
The echoes are as dull as executioners' drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.
It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.
Charles Baudelaire
Monday, 3 October 2016
Train (1915)
Helen Mackay
Will the train never start?
God, make the train start.
God, make the train start.
She cannot bear it, keeping up so long;
and he, he no more tries to laugh at her.
He is going.
and he, he no more tries to laugh at her.
He is going.
She holds his two hands now.
Now, she has touch of him and sight of him.
And then he will be gone.
He will be gone.
Now, she has touch of him and sight of him.
And then he will be gone.
He will be gone.
They are so young.
She stands under the window of his carriage,
and he stands in the window.
They hold each other’s hands
across the window ledge.
And look and look,
and know that they may never look again.
She stands under the window of his carriage,
and he stands in the window.
They hold each other’s hands
across the window ledge.
And look and look,
and know that they may never look again.
The great clock of the station, –
how strange it is.
Terrible that the minutes go,
terrible that the minutes never go.
how strange it is.
Terrible that the minutes go,
terrible that the minutes never go.
They had walked the platform for so long,
up and down, and up and down-
the platform, in the rainy morning,
up and down, and up and down.
up and down, and up and down-
the platform, in the rainy morning,
up and down, and up and down.
The guard came by, calling,
“Take your places, take your places.”
“Take your places, take your places.”
She stands under the window of his carriage,
and he stands in the window.
and he stands in the window.
God, make the train start!
Before they cannot bear it,
make the train start!
Before they cannot bear it,
make the train start!
God, make the train start!
The three children, there,
in black, with the old nurse,
standing together, and looking, and looking,
up at their father in the carriage window,
they are so forlorn and silent.
in black, with the old nurse,
standing together, and looking, and looking,
up at their father in the carriage window,
they are so forlorn and silent.
The little girl will not cry,
but her chin trembles.
She throws back her head,
with its stiff little braid,
and will not cry.
but her chin trembles.
She throws back her head,
with its stiff little braid,
and will not cry.
Her father leans down,
out over the ledge of the window,
and kisses her, and kisses her.
out over the ledge of the window,
and kisses her, and kisses her.
She must be like her mother,
and it must be the mother who is dead.
and it must be the mother who is dead.
The nurse lifts up the smallest boy,
and his father kisses him,
leaning through the carriage window.
and his father kisses him,
leaning through the carriage window.
The big boy stands very straight,
and looks at his father,
and looks, and never takes his eyes from him.
And knows that he may never look again.
and looks at his father,
and looks, and never takes his eyes from him.
And knows that he may never look again.
Will the train never start?
God, make the train start!
God, make the train start!
The father reaches his hand down from the window,
and grips the boy’s hand,
and does not speak at all.
and grips the boy’s hand,
and does not speak at all.
Will the train never start?
He lets the boy’s hand go.
Will the train never start?
He takes the boy’s chin in his hand,
leaning out through the window,
and lifts the face that is so young, to his.
They look and look,
and know that they may never look again.
leaning out through the window,
and lifts the face that is so young, to his.
They look and look,
and know that they may never look again.
Will the train never start?
God, make the train start!
God, make the train start!
Saturday, 1 October 2016
my morning poem,,,
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
Especially When The October Wind
Dylan Thomas
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