My favorite poems
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And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not. writ over the door;
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.
-William Blake
Tyger, tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes!
On what wings dare he aspire!
What the hand, dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make the?
Tyger, tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
-William Blake
Oh Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm
Has found out thy bed
of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy
-William Blake
I am thy priest and thy poet,
I am thy serf and thy king;
I cure the tears of the heart sick,
When I come near they shall sing.
White are my hands as the snow-drop;
Battle and war are my minions,
Doing my will as divine;
I am the calmer of passions,
Peace is a nursling of mine.
Speak to me gently or curse me,
Seek me or fly from my sight;
I am thy fool in the morning,
Thou art my slave in the night.
Down to the grave will I take thee,
Out from the noise of the strife;
Then shalt thou see me and know me –
Death, then, no longer, but life.
Then shalt thou sing at my coming,
Kiss me with passionate breath,
Clasp me and smile to have thought me
Aught save the foeman of Death.
Come to me, brother, when weary,
Come when thy lonely heart swells;
I’ll guide thy footsteps and lead thee
Down where the Dream Woman dwells.
-Alice Dunbar Nelson
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them; "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
-Rudyard Kipling
Es heißt
ein Dichter
ist einer
der Worte
zusammenfügt
Das stimmt nicht
Ein Dichter
ist einer
den Worte
noch halbwegs
zusammenfügen
wenn er Glück hat
Wenn er Unglück hat
reißen die Worte
ihn auseinander
-Erich Fried
Two roads diverged in a wood and I –
I took the one less travelled by.
And that has made all the difference.
-Robert Frost
Forgive, O Lord,
my little jokes on Thee,
And I’ll forgive
Thy great big ones on me.
-Robert Frost
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
of a surf-tormented shore
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand -
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep
While I weep - while I weep!
Oh, God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
Oh God! Can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
-Edgar Allan Poe
Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister.
Varför skulle annars våren tveka?
Varför skulle all vår heta längtan
bindas i det frusna bitterbleka?
Höljet var ju knoppen hela vintern.
Vad är det för nytt, som tär och spränger?
Ja visst gör det ont när knoppar brister,
ont för det som växer
och det som stänger.
Ja nog är det svårt när droppar faller.
Skälvande av ängslan tungt de hänger,
klamrar sig vid kvisten, sväller, glider -
tyngden drar dem neråt, hur de klänger.
Svårt att vara oviss, rädd och delad,
svårt att känna djupet dra och kalla,
ändå sitta kvar och bara darra -
svårt att vilja stanna
och vilja falla.
Då, när det är som värst och inget hjälper
brister som i jubel trädets knoppar,
då, när ingen rädsla längre håller,
faller i ett glitter kvistens droppar,
glömmer att de skrämdes av det nya,
glömmer att de ängslades för färden -
känner en sekund sin största trygghet,
vilar i den tillit
som skapar världen.
-Karin Boye
Han kom som en vind.
Vad bryr sig en vind om förbud?
Han kysste din kind,
han kysste allt blod till din hud.
Det borde ha stannat därvid:
du var ju en annans, blott lånad
en kväll i syrenernas tid
och gullregnens månad.
Han kysste ditt öra, ditt hår.
Vad fäster en vind
sig vid om han får?
På ögonen kysstes du blind.
Du ville, förstås, ej alls
i början besvara hans trånad.
Men snart låg din arm om hans hals
i gullregnens månad.
Från din mun har han kysst
det sista av motstånd som fanns.
Din mun ligger tyst
med halvöppna läppar mot hans.
Det kommer en vind och går:
och hela din världsbild rasar
för en fläkt från syrenernas vår
och gullregnens klasar.
- Hjalmar Gullberg