شعر إنجليزي

–The Soul has Bandaged moments  –When too appalled to stir  She feels some ghastly Fright come up –And stop to look at her 

From cocoon forth a butterfly As lady from her door —Emerged — a summer afternoon ,Repairing everywhere

,One need not be a chamber to be haunted ;One need not be a house The brain has corridors surpassing .Material place

,Departed to the judgment ;A mighty afternoon ,Great clouds like ushers leaning .Creation looking on

Mild the mist upon the hill ;Telling not of storms tomorrow ,No, the day has wept its fill .Spent its store of silent sorrow

Come hither, child — who gifted thee ?With power to touch that string so well ,How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me ?Thoughts that I would — but cannot quell

,For him who struck thy foreign string ;I ween this heart has ceased to care Then why dost thou such feelings bring ?To my sad spirit—old Guitar

;Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away ;Lengthen night and shorten day

Yes, holy be thy resting place ;Wherever thou may’st lie ,The sweetest winds breathe on thy face .The softest of the sky

,The sale began—young girls were there       ,Defenseless in their wretchedness Whose stifled sobs of deep despair       .Revealed their anguish and distress

The gray path glided before me ;Through cool, green shadows Little leaves hung in the soft air ;Like drowsy moths

,In the evenings of my childhood ,when I went to bed ,music washed into the cove of my room .my door open to a slice of light

which do you love more a feather or a rock 'to be good is to be 'natural I mean to appear

,It's just getting dark, fog drifting in ,damp grasses fragrant with anise and mint and though I call his name ,until my voice cracks

;Laugh, and the world laughs with you ;Weep, and you weep alone ,For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth .But has trouble enough of its own

They say the world is round, and yet ,I often think it square So many little hurts we get .From corners here and there

Last Night I saw the savage world And heard the blood beat up the stair The fox’s bark the owl’s shrewd pounce The crying creatures all were there

At my wits’ end ,And all resources gone, I lay here ,All of my body tense to the touch of fear ,And my mind

You would have understood each other well And proved to us how periods of art Are less important than the personal .Worlds that each painter makes from mind and heart

The radiance of the star that leans on me Was shining years ago. The light that now

, Now like the Lady of Shalott ,I dwell within an empty room  And through the day and through the night  .I sit before an ancient loom

.At evening, something behind me ,I start for a second, I blench .or staggeringly halt and burn .I do not know my age

Oh, but it is dirty ,this little filling station— oil-soaked, oil-permeated to a disturbing, over-all .

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams ,hurry too rapidly down to the sea and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops

,Although it is a cold evening down by one of the fishhouses ,an old man sits netting ,his net, in the gloaming almost invisible

كتبت الشاعرة إليزابيث باريت براوننج هذه القصيدة كتذكير للقراء بأنّ هناك عالمًا كاملاً بعيدًا عن عالم المرء لا يتأثر بالمشاكل اليومية الكئيبة للحياة البشرية.   ملخص قصيدة Patience Taught By Nature   نُشرت هذه القصيدة في عام 1845 في مجموعة قصائد براوننج، دراما المنفى وقصائد أخرى، هذه القصيدة مكتوبة في مقطع واحد يتكون من أربعة […]

.ENOUGH ! we’re tired, my heart and I  ,We sit beside the headstone thus  .And wish that name were carved for us 

Now let no charitable hope Confuse my mind with images :Of eagle and of antelope

For this you’ve striven ‎‏ :Daring, to fail ‎‏Your sky is riven ‎‏ .Like a tearing veil

All day and night, save winter, every weather ,Above the inn, the smithy, and the shop The aspens at the cross-roads talk together