Bootstrap Framework 3.3.6

[Swanheart]

Trecinu zivota je proveo u Dablinu,sa roditeljima se preselio u London gde je napisao najvise pesama,kada je vec poceo da stari vratio se u Irsku.Valjda:puzzle:

[Ulix]

Originally posted by Freya
"To see a World in a grain of sand,
And a Heaven in a wild flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour"

(William Blake)

Auguries of Innocence je li?

The Sick Rose

O 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.

[Lorelai]

Sadrzaj ovog posta je obrisan usled krsenja autoskih prava. Molimo Vas da ubuduce ne postavljate sadrzaj na forumu koji ce na bilo koji nacin krsiti bilo cija autorska prava. Hvala Vam na saradnji. GS Tim

[Lorelai]

The Grave of Keats

Rid of the world's injustice, and his pain,
He rests at last beneath God's veil of blue:
Taken from life when life and love were new
The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,

Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.
No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,
But gentle violets weeping with the dew
Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.

O proudest heart that broke for misery!
O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!
O poet-painter of our English Land!

Thy name was writ in water - it shall stand:
And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,
As Isabella did her Basil tree.


Oscar Wilde

[Lorelai]

Impression de Voyage

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
Burned like a heated opal through the air;
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.

From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak,
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.

The flapping of the sail against the mast,
The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls' laughter at the stern,

The only sounds - when 'gan the west to burn,
And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

O.Wilde


Obozavam ga.

[Acorn Girl]

John Milton - Paradise Lost: The First Book

... "Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,"
Said then the lost Archangel, "this the seat
That we must change for Heaven?-this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since He 245
Who now is sovran can dispose and bid
What shall be right: fardest from Him is best,
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail, 250
Infernal World! and thou, profoundest Hell,
Receive thy new possessor-one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. 255
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: 260
Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
The associates and co-partners of our loss, 265
Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy mansion, or once more
With rallied arms to try what may be yet
Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell?"...

[Lorelai]

She Was a Phantom of Delight

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon a nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warm, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright,
With something of angelic light.

William Wordsworth

[Lorelai]

CARPE DIEM
SEIZE THE DAY


O Captain! My Captain!
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up - for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths - for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Hear Captain! dear father!
The arm beneath your head!
It is some dream your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You'vefallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shore, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O me! O life!
O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring.
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the foolish.
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew'd.
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring -- What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer That you are here--that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

-WALT WHITMAN
-1819-1892

[Lorelai]

Swanheart vec sam je ja stavila.

[Swanheart]

Obrisano.

[Kupper]

THE auncient acquaintance, madam, betwen vs twayn,
The famylyaryte, the formal dalyaunce,
Causyth me that I can not myself refrayne
But that I must wryte for my plesaunt pastaunce :
Remembryng your passying goodly countenaunce,
Your goodly port, your bewteous visage,
Ye may be countyd comfort of all corage.

Of all your feturs fauorable to make tru discripcion,
I am insuffycyent to make such enterpryse ;
For thus dare I say, without [con]tradiccyon,
That dame Menolope was neuer half so wyse :
Yet so it is that a rumer begynneth for to ryse,
How in good horsmen ye set your hole delyght,
And haue forgoten your old trew louyng knyght.

Wyth bound and rebound, bounsyngly take vp
Hys jentyll curtoyl, and set nowght by small naggys !
Spur vp at the hynder gyrth, with Gup, morell, gup !
With, Jayst ye, jenet of Spayne, for your tayll waggys !
Ye cast all your corage vppon such courtly haggys.
Haue in sergeaunt ferrour, myne horse behynd is bare ;
He rydeth well the horse, but he rydeth better the mare.

Ware, ware, the mare wynsyth wyth her wanton hele !
She kykyth with her kalkyns and keylyth with a clench ;
She goyth wyde behynde, and hewyth neuer a dele :
Ware gallyng in the widders, ware of that wrenche !
It is perlous for a horseman to dyg in the trenche.
Thus greuyth your husband, that ryght jentyll knyght,
And so with youre seruantys he fersly doth fyght.

So fersly he fytyth, his mynde is so fell,
That he dryuyth them doune with dyntes on ther day wach ;
He bresyth theyr braynpannys and makyth them to swell,
Theyre browys all to-brokyn, such clappys they cach ;
Whose jalawsy malycyous makyth them to lepe the hach ;
By theyr conusaunce knowing how they serue a wily py :
Ask all your neybours whether that I ly.

It can be no counsell that is cryed at the cros :
For youre jentyll husband sorowfull am I ;
How be it, he is not furst hath had a los :
Aduertysyng you, madame, to warke more secretly,
Let not all the world make an owtcry ;
Play fayre play, madame, and loke ye play clene,
Or ells with gret shame your game wylbe sene.

John Scelton (1460-1529)

Prijatelj mi je prosle godine citao prevod jer je bas tesko za prevesti. Odusevio sam se.

[Lorelai]

Thing of Beauty

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

John Keats

[Lorelai]

Vitmenova pesma je slucajno stavljena ovde...
Izvinjavam se.

[Lorelai]

O Solitude!If I Must With Thee Dwell


O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

John Keats

[~ Le Saint X ~]

Kao profesor engleskog jezika i knjizevnosti, naravno da volim englesku poeziju...


A ima previse pesama / soneta koje volim...
Naravno, Shakespeare je sa sonetima neponovljiv!!!

[~ Le Saint X ~]

A. E. Housman


Oh, when I was in love with you
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they'll say that I
Am quite myself again.

[~ Le Saint X ~]

Originally posted by Swanheart
Wystan Hugh Auden -"Funeral Blues"

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

one of the most beautiful poems ever written!!!
KAda sam je procitao...
waooo!!!

Bio sam AMAZED!!!

[~ Le Saint X ~]

Ovo je moj omiljeni Shekspirov sonet...


SONNET 57
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time* at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

[hlaefdige]

Originally posted by Renoir
Kao profesor engleskog jezika i knjizevnosti, naravno da volim englesku poeziju...

pa i ja....ali ne bih ni slucajno rekla da je to "naravno"...

[~ Le Saint X ~]

Originally posted by hlaefdige

Originally posted by Renoir
Kao profesor engleskog jezika i knjizevnosti, naravno da volim englesku poeziju...

pa i ja....ali ne bih ni slucajno rekla da je to "naravno"...

zasto???

[hlaefdige]

poznajem nekoliko vrlo dobrih profesora engleskog jezika koji uopste ne uzivaju u engleskoj poeziji...sigurno si i sam sretao takve na faksu

[~ Le Saint X ~]

Pa, dobro...
Ako cemo tako...ne uzivam ni ja u celokupnoj engleskoj (anglo-americkoj) poeziji...
ima onog sto volim i onog sto ne volim...
ali, generalno volim poeziju...

[hlaefdige]

i ja...zato prestajem sa oftopikom i ostavljam mesta za poeziju

[~ Le Saint X ~]

SONNET 80


O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark inferior far to his
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this; my love was my decay.

[~ Le Saint X ~]

SONNET 138


When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

[~ Le Saint X ~]

SONNET 48


How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy of comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou, best of dearest and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

[~ Le Saint X ~]

srpski prevod soneta 48 je fenomenalan!

Jedini put da sam pomislio da je srpski prevod bolji od originala!

[~ Le Saint X ~]

PREDIVNA PESMA

EMILY DICKINSON


I HAD no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.

[~ Le Saint X ~]

SWEETHEART, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed -
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.


by


YEATS

[~ Le Saint X ~]

Originally posted by Renoir
SWEETHEART, do not love too long:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one.
But O, in a minute she changed -
O do not love too long,
Or you will grow out of fashion
Like an old song.


by


YEATS

love this poem more and more