قصائد أجنبية

The heat of autumn .is different from the heat of summer .One ripens apples, the other turns them to cider ,One is a dock you walk out on

When stretch’d on one’s bed ,With a fierce-throbbing head ,Which preculdes alike thought or repose How little one cares

,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

.Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around ,Full swell the woods; their every music wakes Mix’d in wild concert, with the warbling brooks ,Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills

for my father, 1922-1944 Your face did not rot ,like the others--the co-pilot for example, I saw him

,Crossing the street I saw the parents and the child At their window, gleaming like fruit .With evening’s mild gold leaf

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

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر جيمس لاسدون، تصف القصيدة إيمان أحد المتحدثين بالخير العام للعالم والطريقة التي يعتقد أنّ المتشائم يجب أن يعيشها.

One the road to the bay was a lake of rushes .Where we bathed at times and changed in the bamboos Now it is rather to stand and say ,How many roads we take that lead to Nowhere

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر جيمس كيركوب، القصيدة تعيد حقيقة أنّ جميع الرجال متماثلون، على الرغم من الاختلافات التي صنعها الإنسان في الطائفة والدين والجنسية واللغة.

Of the dark past .A child is born With joy and grief .My heart is torn

;The night was creeping on the ground  She crept and did not make a sound  Until she reached the tree, and then  She covered it, and sole again 

In the beginning .there was the war The war said let there be war .and there was war

In summer when the Christmas beetles ,filled each day with thin brass shrilling ,heat would wake you, lapping at the sheet and drive you up and out into the glare

—Whirl up, sea ,whirl your pointed pines splash your great pines

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

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

Even though it’s May & the ice cream truck ,parked outside my apartment is somehow certain ,I have a hard time believing winter is somehow ,all of a sudden, over — the worst one of my life

When ocean-clouds over inland hills ,Sweep storming in late autumn brown ,And horror the sodden valley fills ,And the spire falls crashing in the town

,When the summer harvest was gathered in ,And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin ,And the ploughshare was in its furrow left ,Where the stubble land had been lately cleft

As a pale phantom with a lamp ,Ascends some ruin’s haunted stair So glides the moon along the damp .Mysterious chambers of the air

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes   And roofs of villages, on woodland crests   And their aerial neighborhoods of nests   Deserted, on the curtained window-panes

,Out of the bosom of the Air       ,Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken ,Over the woodlands brown and bare       ,Over the harvest-fields forsaken

,I thank you, kind and best beloved friend ,With the same thanks one murmurs to a sister ,When, for some gentle favor, he hath kissed her ,Less for the gifts than for the love you send

.Look, my love, on the wall, and here, at this Eastern picture :How still its scene, and neither of sleep nor waking ,No shadow falls from the tree or the golden mountain ,The boats on the glassy lake have no reflection .No echo would come if you blew a horn in those valleys

,By channels of coolness the echoes are calling ;And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling It lives in the mountain, where moss and the sedges ;Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges

No riches from his scanty store ;My lover could impart —He gave a boon I valued more !He gave me all his heart

I'd like the memory of me .To be a happy one l'd like to leave an afterglow .Of smiles when day is done

A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold ;A butterfly, gaudy and gay ,And, rocked in a cradle of crimson and gold .The careless young slumberer lay

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر يوسا بوسون، وهي هايكو ياباني تصور مشهدًا ليليًا مليئًا برائحة شجيرة تسمى الوستارية.