Thomas Hardy 2 June — 11 January After years of writing novels to earn his living — novels which contain seams of poetry, but in which he felt constrained to work to the demands of the market — poetry came to him as a relief and a pleasure. Extract from intro: Poems of Thomas Hardy. Selected and Introduced by Claire Tomalin, which does not include the above poem. Sie sagten: "Du hast eine blaue Gitarre, Du spielst die Dinge nicht, wie sie sind.
Doch endlich kamen sie einander in die Haare, Und ihre Republik versank in Anarchie. Ha, rief das arme Volk mit tiefgesenkten Ohren Und mit geschundner Haut, was haben wir getan!
Gottlieb Konrad Pfeffel: Satiriker und Philanthrop, All things counter, original, spare, strange; ::Whatever is fickle, freckled who knows how? Juni in Dublin war ein britischer Lyriker und Jesuit, dessen Gedichte vor allem wegen der Lebendigkeit ihres Ausdrucks bewundert werden. The day was green. They said, "You have a blue guitar, You do not play things as they are.
Wallace Stevens. Then Napoleon took over the plan to build the mill. While the animals starved and slaved under the slogan, "I will work harder," the pigs moved into Jones's farmhouse, and the glorification of the Leader as Comrade Napoleon was now called became systematic. Hens were sometimes heard to say: "Under the guidance of our Leader, Comrade Napoleon, I have laid five eggs in six days.
Fountain of happiness! Lord of the swill-bucket! Thou art the giver of All that thy creature love, Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon; Every beast great or small Sleeps at peace in his stall, Thou watchest over all, Comrade Napoleon!
George Orwell — The Seven Commandments 1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. No animal shall wear clothes. No animal shall sleep in a bed. No animal shall drink alcohol. No animal shall kill any other animal. All animals are equal. Comment A Marriage We met under a shower of bird-notes. Fifty years passed, love's moment And she, who in life had done everything with a bird's grace, opened her bill now for the shedding of one sigh no heavier than a feather.
Thomas , walisischer Lyriker, der auf englisch schrieb. Seine kurze Autobiographie verfasste er auf Walisisch. You make it for yourself firstly, and then if other people want to join in then there we are.
Comment Friendship A ruddy drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs, The world uncertain comes and goes; The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was fled,- And, after many a year, Glowed unexhausted kindliness, Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again, O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red; All things through thee take nobler form, And look beyond the earth, The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness had taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair.
I know your lust Is love. Sceptic Thomas! Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true? Emily Dickinson , konnte ich mir nach nicht verkneifen Is the blue changed above thee, O world! Will you change every flower that grows, Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not? The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree; The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me. Zweifelnder Thomas!
Echt war dein Vogel, fragst du nun noch? John Clare 13 July — 20 May was an English poet, born in Helpston, Northamptonshire, the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption. In summer quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day, I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown up people's feet Still going past me in the street, And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?
Robert Louis Stevenson —94, Scottish novelist, poet, and essayist,. Comment The Invitation It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow. If you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with JOY, mine or your own; If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstacy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being a human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true. Soon, a bronze Adonis — ogling girls! It must be done! You will realise What a position it puts Me in. I couldn't really Have died for you if so I were inclined. The carn Foxglove here on the wall Outside your first house Leans with me standing In the Zennor wind.
Anyhow how are things? Are you still somewhere With your long legs And twitching smile under Your blue hat walking Across a place? Or am I greedy to make you up Again out of memory? Graham , Graham was born in Greenock, Scotland. His first book, Cage Without Grievance was published in Er hat's begangen, Er hat's vollbracht! Er baute Tempel Dem Teufel selbst! Er hat's begangen, Er ist erkannt! Er ist ein Satan, Die Maske fiel!
Sie singen laut ihm Triumph, Triumph! Doch ach, es graut ihm, Wie sehr sie dudeln! Harpy'n besudeln Gesalbtes Haupt. August von Platen , Aus den "Polenliedern". Bett stinkt bei Bett. Komm, hebe ruhig diese Decke auf. Das Fleisch ist weich und schmerzt nicht. Gottfried Benn - gilt als einer der bedeutendsten deutschen Dichter der literarischen Moderne.
Comment Oh ja, ein paar deutschsprachige Lyriker dazu ist auch nicht schlecht. Comment Und wie lautet der Titel zu diesem Gedicht, Phillipp? Erscheint auf S. Die letzten zwei Zeilen sind gut. Aber dann wie kann es ja anders sein? Aber wie gesagt: Danke! Comment Der alte Lear will abtreten. Cordelia: Then poor Cordelia! Cordelia: Nothing, my lord. Lear: Nothing? Cordelia: Nothing. Lear: Nothing will come of nothing: speak again. Lear: How, how, Cordelia!
Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all? Happily, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all. Lear: But goes thy heart with this? Cordelia: Ay, my good Lord. Lear: So young, and so untender? Cordelia: So young, my Lord, and true.
Lear: Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist, and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and relieved, As thou my sometime daughter.
Comment Furcht der Geliebten Cidli, du weinest, und ich schlumre sicher, Wo im Sande der Weg verzogen fortschleicht; Auch wenn stille Nacht ihn umschattend decket, Schlumr' ich ihn sicher. Weine nicht, Cidli. Inhalt und Form decken sich auch vollkommen. Er war ein junger Schmetterling, Der selig an der Blume hing.
Ach Gott, wie das dem Schmetterling So schmerzlich durch die Seele ging. Doch was am meisten ihn entsetzt, Das Allerschlimmste kam zuletzt. Wilhelm Busch - Comment Klasse!! Die Kraft, infolge der Erregung, Verwandelt sich in Schwungbewegung. Bewegung, die in schnellem Blitze Zur Backe eilt, wird hier zu Hitze. Comment Danke, Chaostranslater. Es lohnt sich, den "einflussreichsten humoristischen Dichter und Zeichner Deutschlands" Wikip.
Hier noch ein weiteres Gedichtchen: Wirklich, er war unentbehrlich! Ohne ihn war nichts zu machen, Keine Stunde hatt' er frei.
Gestern, als sie ihn begruben, War er richtig auch dabei. Wilhelm Busch aus: Kritik des Herzens Comment Seine Lyrik zeichnet sich durch eine einfache, die Nachkriegsgesellschaft in ihrer ideellen Leere spiegelnde Sprache aus, die beim Leser dennoch komplexe Assoziationen und Bilder evoziert.
There's sound of distant thunder. The latest sea-birds hover Along the cliff's sheer height; As in the memory wander Last flutterings of delight, White wings lost on the white. There's not a ship in sight; And as the sun goes under, Thick clouds conspire to cover The moon that should rise yonder. Thou art alone, fond lover. Robert Seymour Bridges — Detlev von Liliencron - Sie aalt sich im Sand und zeigt alles her.
Sie gibt der Sonne reichlich zu schaun. Aber zum 4. Todestag gest. Juni , konnte ich einfach nicht widerstehen. Summer's heat can swelter and melt As summer's heat may simmer as weld.
Some summer's heat can burn as long This summer's heat can impel a song. Summer's heat can cook and bake Summer's heat of life can take. Boil and broil a heart so hot Comment At the Fishhouses Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, a dark purple-brown, and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water. The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up to storerooms in the gables for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, is opaque, but the silver of the benches, the lobster pots, and masts, scattered among the wild jagged rocks, is of an apparent translucence like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined with layers of beautiful herring scales The water seems suspended above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, icily free above the stones, above the stones and then the world. If you should dip your hand in, your wrist would ache immediately, your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn as if the water were a transmutation of fire that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, then briny, then surely burn your tongue. It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, drawn from the cold hard mouth of the world, derived from the rocky breasts forever, flowing and drawn, and since our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.
The population numbered two giants, an idiot, a dwarf, a gentle storekeeper asleep behind his counter, and our kind landlady— the dwarf was her dressmaker. The idiot could be beguiled by picking blackberries, but then threw them away.
The shrunken seamstress smiled. He was morose, but she was cheerful. The bedroom was cold, the feather bed close. We were awakened in the dark by the somnambulist brook nearing the sea, still dreaming audibly. Comment ich was not yet in brasilien nach brasilien wuld ich laik du go wer de wimen arr so ander so quait ander denn anderwo ich was not yet in brasilien nach brasilien wuld ich laik du go als ich anderschdehn mange lanquidsch will ich anderschdehn auch lanquidsch in rioo Juli , S.
Comment Between the Dusk of a Summer Night Between the dusk of a summer night And the dawn of a summer day, We caught at a mood as it passed in flight, And we bade it stoop and stay. And what with the dawn of night began With the dusk of day was done; For that is the way of woman and man, When a hazard has made them one. Arc upon arc, from shade to shine, The World went thundering free; And what was his errand but hers and mine -- The lords of him, I and she?
O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one. Comment Innerlichkeit, Paarreime und Katharsis einer Leserin The More Loving One Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time.
Comment The Sons of Martha The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part; But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart. And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest, Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest. It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock. It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain, Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main. They say to mountains, 'Be ye removed.
Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit -- then is the bed of the deep laid bare, That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware. They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires. He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires. Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall, And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar. They are concerned with matters hidden -- under the earthline their altars are -- The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth, And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose. They do not teach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they dam'-well choose. As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand, Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat -- Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that! Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed, But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need. And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed -- they know the Angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied. They sit at the Feet -- they hear the Word -- they see how truly the Promise runs. Rudyard Kipling - April in Brachthausen, Sauerland ist eine deutsche Schriftstellerin. Sie schreibt Lyrik und Romane. Heute lebt sie in Hamburg und ist mit Klaus von Dohnanyi verheiratet. O plain as plain can be There's nothing but our own red blood Can make a right Rose Tree.
He also suggests that Ireland would be green again if this conflict stopped and Irish blood has been spilt. Comment Two Months June No hope, no change!
The clouds have shut us in, And through the cloud the sullen Sun strikes down Full on the bosom of the tortured Town, Till Night falls heavy as remembered sin That will not suffer sleep or thought of ease, And, hour on hour, the dry-eyed Moon in spite Glares through the haze and mocks with watery light The torment of the uncomplaining trees.
Far off, the Thunder bellows her despair To echoing Earth, thrice parched. The lightnings fly In vain. No help the heaped-up clouds afford, But wearier weight of burdened, burning air. What truce with Dawn?
Look, from the aching sky, Day stalks, a tyrant with a flaming sword! September At dawn there was a murmur in the trees, A ripple on the tank, and in the air Presage of coming coolness -- everywhere A voice of prophecy upon the breeze. Up leapt the Sun and smote the dust to gold, And strove to parch anew the heedless land, All impotently, as a King grown old Wars for the Empire crumbling 'neath his hand.
One after one the lotos-petals fell, Beneath the onslaught of the rebel year, In mutiny against a furious sky; And far-off Winter whispered: -- "It is well! Behold your help is near, "For when men's need is sorest, then come I.
Rudyard Kipling fehlte hier noch. Und wie viele andere Leser kannte ich Kipling eigentlich nur vom Dschungelbuch her. Rose of All the World I am here myself; as though this heave of effort At starting other life, fulfilled my own; Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown By all the blood of the rose-bush into being - Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly To bring together two strange sparks, beget Another life from our lives, so should send The innermost fire of my own dim soul out-spinning And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me!
That my completion of manhood should be the beginning Another life from mine! For so it looks. The seed is purpose, blossom accident.
The seed is all in all, the blossom lent To crown the triumph of this new descent. Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so? The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire Fans out your petals for excess of flame, Till all your being smokes with fine desire? Or are we kindled, you and I, to be One rose of wonderment upon the tree Of perfect life, and is our possible seed But the residuum of the ecstasy?
How will you have it? The sharp begetting, or the child begot? Our consummation matters, or does it not? To me it seems the seed is just left over From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience; Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence. Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive; For me it is more than enough if the flower unclose.
Lawrence — Wie ist die Zeit vertan! Der Port naht mehr und mehr sich zu der Glieder Kahn. Gleich wie dies Licht verfiel, so wird in wenig Jahren Ich, du, und was man hat, und was man sieht, hinfahren.
Dein ewig heller Glanz sei vor und neben mir! Andreas Gryphius - Ich war zornig auf den Feind; schwieg: mein Zorn vermehrte sich. Tiefer neigt sich das Korn, der rote Mohn. Das alte Lied der Grille erstirbt im Feld.
Nimmer regt sich das Laub der Kastanie. Auf der Wendeltreppe rauscht dein Kleid. Der wird zur Pflanze, wenn er will, zum Tier, zum Narr, zum Weisen, und kann in einer Stunde durchs ganze Weltall reisen. Der mit sich selbst in Frieden lebt, der wird genauso sterben, und ist selbst dann lebendiger, als alle seine Erben. Novalis, He becomes the plant if it wants, Or the animal, the fool, or wise man and can travel in an hour through the entire universe.
He knows that he nothing knows, Like the others who doesn't know anything But knows what he and the others have to learn about. Who feels alien shores in himself, and who has courage to stretch himself, to be active he will discover himself, bit by nit and undisturbed of fear. He will look downward to the mountain tops? Who hears butterflies laughing, He knows, how clouds taste, He will discover night in the moonlight undisturbed of fear. He who live in peace with himself, He will also die in peace, And he will be more lively as all his offsprings.
Translation by Novalis 'Novalis' is the name of a German art rock band from the seventies. Comment To a Skylark Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert- That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden light'ning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight- Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers- All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh-thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt- A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain?
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User Ratings. External Reviews. Metacritic Reviews. Photo Gallery. Trailers and Videos. Crazy Credits. Alternate Versions. Bones — Rate This. The character Og , a pessimistic leprechaun, repeatedly used the rhyming phrase thus:. D-o-o-m and gl-o-o-m I told you that gold could only bring you doom and gloom, gloom and doom. The phrase was began to be used by US political commentators in the s, possibly due to the success of Finian's Rainbow.
One of the first known print sources is from a North Carolina paper The Statesville Landmark from the year In the film, a pessimistic leprechaun sings the following,. Since the midth century, this phrase has seen a large increase in use. In the example below, one sibling is talking to another about what they think will happen in the future.Mar 18, · Directed by Kate Woods. With Emily Deschanel, David Boreanaz, Michaela Conlin, Tamara Taylor. When the Jeffersonian team investigates the death of a former Marine sergeant whose remains were found burned to a crisp, they discover that she was discharged after a fist fight with another Marine. When Booth and Sweets go to question the other Marine involved in the altercation, they /10().