شعر إنجليزي

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

,Never trust a mirror ,For the mirror always lies ,It makes you think that all your worth .Can be seen from the outside

—There is a pain—so utter —It swallows substance up —Then covers the Abyss with Trance

—The Trees like Tassels — hit — and swung  There seemed to rise a Tune From Miniature Creatures —Accompanying the Sun 

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

–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

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

To fling my arms wide ,In some place of the sun To whirl and to dance

Democracy will not come Today, this year Nor ever .Through compromise and fear

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

, 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 .

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

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

;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

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