Le hibou parmi les décombres Hurle, et Décembre va finir ; Et le douloureux souvenir Sur ton coeur jette encor ses ombres. Le vol de ces jours que tu nombres, L’aurais-tu voulu retenir ? Combien seront, dans l’avenir, Brillants et purs ; et combien, sombres ? Laisse donc les ans…
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I see a land of desperate droughts and floods: I see a land where need keeps spreading round, And all but giants perish in the stress: I see a land where more, and more, and more The demons, Earth and…
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We are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee, As théou, Léove, were the déep thought And we the speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we, Thy fires of thought out-spoken: But burn’d not through us thy imagining Like fiérce méood in a séong céaught, We…
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Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow’s share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d? Can…
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To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love All pray in their distress; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is God, our Father dear, And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is man, His child and care. For Mercy has a…
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A Soldier – His Prayer
(This anonymous poem was blown by the wind into a slit trench at El Agheila, Libya, during a heavy bombardment). Stay with me, God. The night is dark, The night is cold: my little spark Of courage dies. The night is long; Be with me, God, and make me strong.…
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All last night I had quiet In a fragrant dream and warm: She became my Sabbath, And round my neck, her arm. I knew the warmth in my dreaming; …
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Roses can wound, But not from having thorns they do most harm; Often the night gives, starry-sheen or moon’d, Deep in the soul alarm. And it hath been deep within my heart like fear, Girl, when you are near. The mist of sense, Wherein the soul goes shielded, can divide,…
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William Blake (1757–1827). THE SUN descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower, In heaven’s high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green…
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Ich ging im Walde So für mich hin, Und nichts zu suchen, Das war mein Sinn. Im Schatten sah ich Ein Blümchen stehn, Wie Sterne leuchtend, Wie Äuglein schön. Ich wollt es brechen, Da sagt es fein: Soll ich zum Welken Gebrochen sein? Ich grub’s mit allen Den Würzlein aus.…
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William Blake (1757–1827). 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.