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One of the ancients,once said that poetry is "the mirror of the perfect soul." Instead of simply writing down travel notes or, not really thinking about the consequences, expressing your thoughts, memories or on paper, the poetic soul needs to seriously work hard to clothe the perfect content in an even more perfect poetic form.
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Reading books RomanceThe unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies.
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Genre of poetry touches such strings in the human soul, the existence of which a person either didn’t suspect, or lowered them to the very bottom, intending to give them delight.


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Read books online » Poetry » Dotze Poemes Vol.08 by Grosella i Grandalla ж3 (reading books for 7 year olds .TXT) 📖

Book online «Dotze Poemes Vol.08 by Grosella i Grandalla ж3 (reading books for 7 year olds .TXT) 📖». Author Grosella i Grandalla ж3



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der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.

 

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille

sich lautlos auf –. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,

geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille –

und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

 

Rainer Maria Rilke, 1902.

 

Les Vers de Terre

 

Les Vers de Terre

 

 

Souvent les vers de terre

Se tortillent en tous sens

On les coupe, les libère

Et les voilà qui dansent !

 

Mais ces vers de papier

N'ont ni queue ni tête ;

Ces vers d'éternité

Qui rongent le poëte

 

Ils l'enlacent, le serrent

L'empoisonnent à demi

Ces affreux vers de terre

Vont lui voler sa vie !

 

Suzon Laesser, 1998 Jeux émotiques ©ж3

LVIII (Volverán las oscuras golondrinas...)

 

LVIII
(Volverán las oscuras golondrinas...)

 

Volverán las oscuras golondrinas

en tu balcón sus nidos a colgar,

y otra vez con el ala a sus cristales

jugando llamarán.

Pero aquellas que el vuelo refrenaban

tu hermosura y mi dicha a contemplar,

aquellas que aprendieron nuestros nombres...

ésas... ¡no volverán!

Volverán las tupidas madreselvas

de tu jardín las tapias a escalar,

y otra vez a la tarde aún más hermosas

sus flores se abrirán.

Pero aquellas cuajadas de rocío

cuyas gotas mirábamos temblar

y caer como lágrimas del día...

ésas... ¡no volverán!

Volverán del amor en tus oídos

las palabras ardientes a sonar;

tu corazón de su profundo sueño

tal vez despertará.

Pero mudo y absorto y de rodillas,

como se adora a Dios ante su altar,

como yo te he querido..., desengáñate,

nadie así te amará.

 

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, 1868, Rimas.

Les Chats

 

Les Chats

 

Les amoureux fervents et les savants austères

Aiment également, dans leur mûre saison,

Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison,

Qui comme eux sont frileux et comme eux sédentaires.

 

Amis de la science et de la volupté

Ils cherchent le silence et l'horreur des ténèbres ;

L'Erèbe les eût pris pour ses coursiers funèbres,

S'ils pouvaient au servage incliner leur fierté.

 

Ils prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes

Des grands sphinx allongés au fond des solitudes,

Qui semblent s'endormir dans un rêve sans fin ;

 

Leurs reins féconds sont pleins d'étincelles magiques,

Et des parcelles d'or, ainsi qu'un sable fin,

Etoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques.

 

 

Charles Baudelaire, 1857, Les Fleurs du Mal.

La Vaca cega

 

La Vaca cega

 

Topant de cap en una i altra soca,

avançant d'esma pel camí de l'aigua,

se'n ve la vaca tota sola. És cega.

D'un cop de roc llançat amb massa traça,

el vailet va buidar-li un ull, i en l'altre

se li ha posat un tel: la vaca és cega.

Ve a abeurar-se a la font com ans solia,

mes no amb el ferm posat d'altres vegades

ni amb ses companyes, no: ve tota sola.

Ses companyes, pels cingles, per les comes,

pel silenci dels prats i en la ribera,

fan dringar l'esquellot mentre pasturen

l'herba fresca a l'atzar, ella cauria!

Topa de morro en l'esmolada pica

i recula afrontada... Però torna,

i abaixa el cap a l'aigua, i beu calmosa.

Beu poc, sens gaire set. Després aixeca

al cel, enorme, l'embanyada testa

amb un gran gesto tràgic; parpelleja

damunt les mortes nines, i se'n torna

orfe de llum sota el sol que crema,

vacil·lant pels camins inoblidables,

brandant llànguidament la llarga cua.

 

 

Joan Maragall, 1893, Pirinenques.

The Tyger

 

The Tyger

 

 

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 seize 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 thee?

 

 

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

William Blake, 1797, Songs of Experience.

Farfalle bianche

Farfalle bianche

 

Done sono passate le farfalle bianche?

Non le vedo di più

I recordi falsi non mi servono

Ti vuoi immaginare, solo e pensivo

La vita è bella se e compartita

Io solo pedriccio, l'amore non si guarda

Per se tan longo...

 

Guðrún Grænndóttir, 1999, in Partitions ©ж3

Die Nachtigall

Die Nachtigall

 

Das macht, es hat die Nachtigall

Die ganze Nacht gesungen;

Da sind von ihrem süßen Schall,

Da sind in Hall und Widerhall

Die Rosen aufgesprungen.

 

Sie war doch sonst ein wildes Kind;

Nun geht sie tief in Sinnen,

trägt in der Hand den Sommerhut

Und duldet still der Sonne Glut

Und weiß nicht, was beginnen.

 

Das macht, es hat die Nachtigall

Die ganze Nacht gesungen;

Da sind von ihrem süßen Schall,

Da sind in Hall und Widerhall

Die Rosen aufgesprungen.

Theodor Storm (1817-1888)

O Sapo

 

O Sapo

 

Não há jardineiro assim,

Não há hortelão melhor

Para uma horta ou jardim,

Para os tratar com amor.

 

É o guarda das flores belas,

da horta mais do pomar;

e enquanto brilham estrelas,

lá anda ele a rondar...

 

Que faz ele? Anda a caçar

os bichos destruidores

que adoecem o pomar

e fazem tristes as flores.

 

Por isso, ficam zangadas

as flores, se se faz mal

a quem as traz tão guardadas

com o seu cuidado leal.

 

E ele guarda as flores belas,

a horta mais o pomar;

brilham no céu as estrelas,

e ele ronda, a trabalhar...

 

E ao pobre sapo, que é cheio

de amor pela terra amiga,

dizem-lhe que é feio

e há quem o mate e persiga

 

Mas as flores ficam zangadas,

choram, e dizem por fim:

- «Então ele traz-nos guardadas,

e depois pagam-lhe assim?»

 

E vendo, à noite, passar

o sapo cheio de medo,

as flores, para o consolar,

chamam-lhe lindo, em segredo...

Afonso Lopes Vieira, 1911, in 'Animais Nossos Amigos'

Los Ratones

 

Los Ratones

 

Juntáronse los ratones,

Para librarse del gato;

Y después de un largo rato

De disputas y opiniones,

Dijeron que acertarían

En ponerle un cascabel,

Que, andando el gato con él,

Guardarse mejor podrían.

 

Salió un ratón barbicano,

Colilargo, hociquirromo,

Y, encrespando el grueso lomo,

Dijo al senado Romano,

Después de hablar culto un rato:

“¿Quién de todos ha de ser

El

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