قصائد أجنبية

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

When George’s Grandmamma was told ,That George had been as good as gold She promised in the afternoon .To buy him an Immense BALLOON

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر هيلير بيلوك، وهي قصيدة قصيرة مسلية تصف إطلاق الرصاص البلاتيني على فرس النهر.

Listless he eyes the palisades ;And sentries in the glare —Tis barren as a pelican-beach’ .But his world is ended there

;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

,The shades of night were falling fast  As through an Alpine village passed  ,A youth, who bore, ‘mid snow and ice  ,A banner with the strange device 

!Come to me, O ye children ,For I hear you at your play And the questions that perplexed me .Have vanished quite away

‘,A soldier of the Union mustered out’ Is the inscription on an unknown grave

!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

In summer dusk the valley lies  ;With far-flung shadow veil  A cloud-sea laps the precipice  :Before the evening gale 

,O patient creature with a peasant face ,Burnt by the summer sun, begrimed with stains !And standing humbly in the dingy lanes ,There seems a mystery in thy work and place

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعرة بيني هارتر، هي هايكو قصيرة لا تُنسى حول وعاء مكسور، تستخدم القصيدة ثلاثة أسطر قصيرة جدًا لوصف قطعها المتأرجحة.

.But in the crowding darkness not a word did they say .Though the pretty-coated birds had piped so lightly all the day

,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

,We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong ”.Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man

,Now we must get up quickly .dress ourselves, and run away Because it surrounds us, because ,they are coming with wolves on leashes because I stood just now at the window

Can you spin ,straw into gold straw into gold, a boast becomes a lie, a lie ,becomes a request ,becomes a promise becomes an agony

Sticks and sleeping bags and ants Dirty hands and grass-stained pants Gathering wood and piling up leaves

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

,The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn ,As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on Afar o’er life’s turrets and vales does it roam .In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home

The fog has risen from the sea and crowned ,The dark, untrodden summits of the coast ,Where roams a voice, in canyons uttermost .From midnight waters vibrant and profound