رؤى بني مصطفى

When midnight comes a host of dogs and men ,Go out and track the badger to his den And put a sack within the hole, and lie .Till the old grunting badger passes bye

,There’s one rides very sagely on the road .Showing that he affects the gravest mode ,Another rides tantivy, or full trot .To show much gravity he matters not

,Thou art not so black as my heart ;Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art  ,What would’st thou say ? shall both our properties by thee be spoke ?Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke—

Stand still, and I will read to thee .A lecture, love, in love’s philosophy ,These three hours that we have spent Walking here, two shadows went

I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying-- To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small ,And listen to an old man not at all .They want the young men's whispering and sighing

;The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ;It rains, and the wind is never weary ,The vine still clings to the mouldering wall ,But at every gust the dead leaves fall

,In Ocean’s wide domains ,Half buried in the sands ,Lie skeletons in chains .With shackled feet and hands

Steaming chip-shop and the red-hot chips And me shaking salt, pepper and vinegar .All over them like I’m some kind of weather

,Pile on the Black Man’s Burden ;Tis nearest at your door‘ Why heed long bleeding Cuba ?Or dark Hawaii’s shore

In the midnight heavens burning ,Thro’ ethereal deeps afar Thus I mus’d, when o’er the vision ;Crept a red delirious change ,Hope dissolving to derision ;Beauty to distortion strange ,Hymnic chords in weird collision

He was twelve years old And I do not know his name ,The mercenaries took him and his father ,Whose name I do not know

Do you remember that wild stretch of land with the lone tree guarding the point ?from the sharp-tongued sea

ظهرت هذه القصيدة في (The Penguin Anthology) من الشعر الأمريكي في القرن العشرين الذي حررته ريتا دوف، تصف هذه القصيدة علاقة حب لم تتحقق لمتحدثة ومشاعرها فيما يتعلق بالعلاقة.

,When everything finally has been wrecked and further shipwrecked ,When their most ardent dream has been made hollow and unrecognizable

في السطور الأولى من هذه القصيدة يبدأ المتحدث بوصف بلغة بسيطة للغاية الطفل الذي فقد كرة يلعب بها، سرعان ما يتضح أنّ هذه الكرة لم تكن شيئًا بسيطًا يمكن استبداله،

,He was reading late, at Richard's, down in Maine ,aged 32? Richard & Helen long in bed .my good wife long in bed ,All I had to do was strip & get into my bed

.Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so ,After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns ,we ourselves flash and yearn and moreover my mother told me as a boy

.Trust me. The world is run on a shoestring They have no time to return the calls in hell And pay dearly for those wasted minutes. Somewhere In the future it will filter down through all the proceedings

The medieval town, with frieze Of boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow ?That came when we wanted it to snow Beautiful images? Trying to avoid

,The shadow of the Venetian blind on the painted wall ,Shadows of the snake-plant and cacti, the plaster animals Focus the tragic melancholy of the bright stare .Into nowhere, a hole like the black holes in space

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة جيليان كلارك، وهي قصيدة عن تعلم ابنها العزف على البيانو، حيث تساعد الصور حول المنزل على وصف إبداع الموسيقى.

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة جيليان كلارك، تصور القصيدة قصة كلارك وهي تتأمل معرض امرأة من التاريخ القديم تم الكشف عن رفاتها.

,I can remember you, child As I stood in a hot, white Room at the window watching The people and cars taking

Márgarét, áre you gríeving ?Over Goldengrove unleaving Leáves like the things of man, you ?With your fresh thoughts care for, can you

,No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief .More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring ?Comforter, where, where is your comforting ?Mary, mother of us, where is your relief

!They are all gone into the world of light ;And I alone sit ling’ring here ,Their very memory is fair and bright .And my sad thoughts doth clear

Time Is ,Too Slow for those who Wait ,Too Swift for those who Fear

One summer afternoon when nothing much was happening, they were standing around a tractor beside the barn while a horse in the field poked his head between two strands

My life has been the poem I would have writ .But I could not both live and utter it

,I love you for your brownness ,And the rounded darkness of your breast I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice .And shadows where your wayward eyelids rest