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And when you didn't know a date he'd get you by the ear And start to twist while you sat there quite paralysed with fear. Roald Dahl — Translation Lied. Translation Night Thoughts Goethe: Nachtgedanken. Translation Eine rote, rote Rose R. Burns: A Red, Red Rose. Translation Moonlit Night Eichendorff: Mondnacht. Beckett: que ferais-je sans ce monde. Text um Der Mann mit der blauen Gitarre W.
Stevens: The Man with the Blue Guitar. Translation Landschaft mit dem Sturz des Ikarus W. Translation Gib mir einen Arzt W.
Auden: Give Me A Doctor. Translation mein geist ist E. Cummings: my mind is. Translation spare time Enzensberger: freizeit.
Translation Delos Lawrence Durrell: Delos. Auden: The Unknown Citizen. Longfellow: Children. Translation Der Giftbaum W. Blake: A Poison Tree. Hopkins: Pied Beauty. Translation Sonett Shakespeare. Sechstes Kapitel. Aus: Kritik des Herzens. Williams: Perfection. Translation Ralph W. Extraction Sonett Shakespeare. Wordsworth: Daffodils. Translation Karl Kraus Sonett 18 Shakespeare. Magee Jr. Poe: The Raven. Translation Charles M. El grito. Monolog Aus: Polenlieder.
Act 5 Scene 5.
Translation Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi Who looks out with my eyes? From: The Tragedy of King Lear. Cummings: i carry your heart with me. Comment Canto His many avowals of love, moreover, are constantly refuted by his harsh attacks on historical figures or groups in lines that convey a rage and contempt more deeply felt than professed love. In the very Canto 91 in which love, identified with light and creation, is the mover and object of the poet, democracies, Jews, and others of whom Pound disapproves are equated with filth.
Lillian Feder. Pound and Ovid. In: George Bornstein Ed. Ezra Pound among the poets. University of Chicago Press; Comment That's really nice. Welcome here, Mrs. Maybe you will like this one too. You and I I explain quietly. You hear me shouting. You try a new tack. I feel old wounds reopen. You see both sides. I see your blinkers. I am placatory. You sense a new selfishness. I am a dove. You recognize the hawk.
You offer an olive branch. I feel the thorns. You bleed. I see crocodile tears. I withdraw. You reel from the impact. He presents the BBC Radio 4 programme Poetry Please and records voice-overs for commercials, as well as performing his own poetry regularly.go here
Guide Oliver Quamp: oder Der traurige Mond (German Edition)
I'm sorry I must correct a typo in the second verse of: Canto Seit ihrem I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described,--"He looks up--the clouds are split," etc. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split Asunder,--and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not! At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
Comment I Like it! Here another one of my favourites: Twelve songs: IX 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. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week, my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moob and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. Viele Leser kennen sie nicht. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. Sie entspricht der Persephone in der griechischen Mythologie. Comment Growing Old What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone.
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Is it to feel our strength - Not our bloom only, but our strength -decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more weakly strung? Yes, this, and more! It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young. It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain. It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion -none.