قصائد أجنبية

?Who would be a turtle who could help it ,A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet she can ill afford the chances she must take .in rowing toward the grasses that she eats

,When it was bitter in New York City I would go out with my mother ,past the icy buildings stay against her, just behind her

,The ribs and terrors in the whale  ,Arched over me a dismal gloom  ,While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by  .And left me deepening down to doom 

River! That in silence windest ,Through the meadows, bright and free Till at length thy rest thou findest !In the bosom of the sea

Searching for pillowcases trimmed with lace that my mother-in-law once made, I open the chest of drawers upstairs to find that mice

,I hear an army charging upon the land :And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees ,Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand .Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers

هو روبرت هيريك (Robert Herrick) كاد أن يكون منسيًا في القرن الثامن عشر، وفي القرن التاسع عشر، صفق بالتناوب على قصائده الشعرية وأدانها بسبب البذاءة، وأصبح روبرت هيريك

;TO know just how he suffered would be dear To know if any human eyes were near ,To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze .Until it settled firm on Paradise

My old man’s a white old man .And my old mother’s black If ever I cursed my white old man .I take my curses back

.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

Having used every subterfuge ,To shake you, lies, fatigue, or even that of passion .Now I see no way but a clean break .I add that I am willing to bear the guilt

All Greece hates ,the still eyes in the white face the lustre as of olives ,where she stands .and the white hands

Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones ,In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done .And start their silent swinging, one by one

,Rose, harsh rose ,marred and with stint of petals ,meagre flower, thin ,sparse of leaf

,Tell me not, in mournful numbers !Life is but an empty dream  ,For the soul is dead that slumbers .And things are not what they seem

,All right. Try this Then. Every body ,I know and care for And every body

!O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute !Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away ,Leave melodizing on this wintry day :Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute

There is a house now far away where once ,I received love……. That woman died The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved Among books, I was then too young

,Jamie MacCrystal sang to himself ;A broken song without tune, without words ,He tipped me a penny every pension day .Fed kindly crusts to winter birds

,This is for the kids who die ,Black and white .For kids will die certainly ,The old and rich will live on awhile

Summer brings out the girls in their green dresses ,Whom the foolish might compare to daffodils ,Not seeing how a dead grandmother in each one governs her limbs ,Darkening the bright corolla, using her lips to speak through Or that a silver torque was woven out of .The roots of wet speargrass

.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

,My heart be brave, and do not falter so .Nor utter more that deep, despairing wail ,Thy way is very dark and drear I know ;But do not let thy strength and courage fail

He never came to me when I would call ,Unless I had a tennis ball ,Or he felt like it .But mostly he didn’t come at all

?What does he plant who plants a tree ;He plants a friend of sun and sky ;He plants the flag of breezes free ;The shaft of beauty, towering high

Aster. Nasturtium. Delphinium. We thought Fingers in dirt meant it was our dirt, learning Names in heat, in elements classical .Philosophers said could change us. Star Gazer

After so long an absence  :At last we meet again  ,Does the meeting give us pleasure  –?Or does it give us pain 

Often I think of the beautiful town ;That is seated by the sea Often in thought go up and down ,The pleasant streets of that dear old town

.Death is nothing at all .I have only slipped away to the next room .I am I and you are you ,Whatever we were to each other .That, we still are

I will not shoot myself In the head, and I will not shoot myself In the back, and I will not hang myself ,With a trashbag, and if I do