قصائد أجنبية

Let me pour forth ,My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here ,For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear ,And by this mintage they are something worth

,Tis the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s‘ ;Lucy’s, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks

,He could not die when trees were green  .For he loved the time too well  ,His little hands, when flowers were seen  ,Were held for the bluebell 

Me not no Oxford don me a simple immigrant from Clapham Common

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

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple .With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves .And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter

,Hair–braided chestnut ,coiled like a lyncher’s rope ,Eye–fagots

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

Lift every voice and sing ,Till earth and heaven ring ;Ring with the harmonies of Liberty Let our rejoicing rise

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

He knew in the hour he died That his heart had never spoken .In eighty years of days O for the tall tower broken

Goldbrown upon the sated flood ;The rockvine clusters lift and sway Vast wings above the lambent waters brood .Of sullen day

All day I hear the noise of waters ,Making moan Sad as the sea-bird is when, going ,Forth alone

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful .And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two .I'm one of your talking wounded .I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded

.The darkness crumbles away ,It is the same old druid Time as ever ,Only a live thing leaps my hand ,A queer sardonic rat

,At last I'm taking off this coat this black coat of a country ,that I swore for years was mine that I wore more out of habit

Theseus, if he did destroy the Minotaur ,(It's hard to say, that may have been a myth) .Was careful not to close the labyrinth

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

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp ;The hunted Negro lay ,He saw the fire of the midnight camp And heard at times a horse’s tramp

,As the birds come in the Spring ;We know not from where As the stars come at evening ;From depths of the air 

,Between the dark and the daylight ,When the night is beginning to lower ,Comes a pause in the day’s occupations .That is known as the Children’s Hour

,I shot an arrow into the air ;It fell to earth, I knew not where For, so swiftly it flew, the sight .Could not follow it in its flight

;Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest ,Home-keeping hearts are happiest For those that wander they know not where ;Are full of trouble and full of care

Listen, my children, and you shall hear  ,Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere  ;On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five  Hardly a man is now alive 

,In broad daylight, and at noon Yesterday I saw the moon ,Sailing high, but faint and white .As a school-boy’s paper kite

;I am poor and old and blind The sun burns me, and the wind Blows through the city gate And covers me with dust

,All are architects of Fate ;Working in these walls of Time ,Some with massive deeds and great .Some with ornaments of rhyme

Ojibwa —,The owl    Au The owl    Au

.No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano Spanish Proverb—

O sweet illusions of song ,That tempt me everywhere In the lonely fields, and the throng !Of the crowded thoroughfare