قصائد أجنبية

Minutes before the rain begins I always waken, listening ,to the world hold its breath as if a phone had rung once in a far

He stalks in his vivid stripes ,The few steps of his cage ,On pads of velvet quiet .In his quiet rage

?What happens to a dream deferred Does it dry up ?like a raisin in the sun —Or fester like a sore

.It was a long time ago .I have almost forgotten my dream ,But it was there then ,In front of me —,Bright like a sun .My dream

Remember how we rowed toward the cottage ,on the sickle-shaped bay that one night after the pub loosed us through its swinging doors

A married state affords but little ease .The best of husbands are so hard to please

,We started speaking .Looked at each other, then turned away .The tears kept rising to my eyes .But I could not weep

!There they go marching all in step so gay .Smooth-cheeked and golden, food for shells and guns ,Blithely they go as to a wedding day .The mothers' sons

?Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on .that interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر فرانك ستيوارت فلينت، يصف فلينت حب أحد المتحدثين لمدينة لندن ووصف جمالها والخوض فيها.   ملخص قصيدة London my beautiful   هي قصيدة من ثلاثة مقاطع مكرسة لمدينة يحبها المتحدث، تتكون القصيدة من مجموعات سطور مرقمة بشكل غير متساو، حيث يحتوي المقطع الأول على اثني عشر سطراً، والثاني ستة، والثالث ستة، […]

,Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea London has swept about you this score years :And bright ships left you this or that in fee

,Around and beneath, the dull grey mist and the sullen roar of the sea ;Scant footing-place on the sheer cliffs face—with death for a penalty ,But afar and above there is rest and love, there is hope for brain and hand .The valleys fair and the crystal air and the peaks of Morning Land 

All essences of sweetness from the white Warm day go up in vapor, when the dark ,Comes down. Ascends the tune of meadow-lark Ascends the noon-time smell of grass, when night

When I was happy alone, too young for love Or to be loved in any but a way Cloudless and gentle, I would find the day .Long as I wished its length or web to weave

You are confronted with yourself. Each year .The pouches fill, the skin is uglier You give it all unflinchingly. You stare

.An Owl’s call scrapes the stillness Curtains are barriers and behind them .The beds settle into neat rows .Soon they’ll be ruffled

,Said the Table to the Chair ,You can hardly be aware‘ ,How I suffer from the heat‘ !And from chilblains on my feet

I am so small walking on the beach .at night under the widening sky The wet sand quickens beneath my feet .and the waves thunder against the shore

,When foxes eat the last gold grape ,And the last white antelope is killed I shall stop fighting and escape .Into a little house I’ll build

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal ,There where the vines cling crimson on the wall .And in the twilight wait for what will come

Dark is the forest and deep, and overhead Hang stars like seeds of light In vain, though not since they were sown was bred

Is this the road that climbs above and bends ‎‏Round what was once a chalk-pit: now it is ‎‏.By accident an amphitheatre

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough :Long worn out, and the roller made of stone

Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me Remembering again that I shall die

I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook .fast in a corner of his mouth

.September rain falls on the house In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child ,beside the Little Marvel Stove

I am in need of music that would flow ,Over my fretful, feeling fingertips ,Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips .With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow

,I MIND me in the days departed How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run .To a garden long deserted

,Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east .And one of them shot in the west by the sea Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast

;I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless  ,That only men incredulous of despair  Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air