قصائد أجنبية

Blood, blood! The lines of every printed sheet ;Through their dark arteries reek with running gore ,At hearth, at board, before the household door .T is the sole subject with which neighbors meet‘

,Brave comrade, answer! When you joined the war     ,What left you? “Wife and children, wealth and friends     A storied home whose ancient roof-tree bends     ”.Above such thoughts as love tells o’er and o’er

O May I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live ,In pulses stirr’d to generosity

.The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke For view there are the houses opposite Cutting the sky with one long line of wall Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch

If you sit down at set of sun ,And count the acts that you have done And, counting, find One self-denying deed, one word

,The world is great: the birds all fly from me  The stars are golden fruit upon a tree  ,All out of reach: my little sister went  .And I am lonely

,Most near, most dear, most loved and most far Under the window where I often found her ,Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter ,Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand

,Once upon a time, son they used to laugh with their hearts :and laugh with their eyes ,but now they only laugh with their teeth

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds also, with the church's protestant blessings) (daughters,unscented shapeless spirited

هي قصيدة بقلم الشاعر عزرا باوند، وهي قصيدة غنية بالصورة تصور لقاء العشاق وسط أقواس قزح في البحر.

:A woman’s hands always hold something .A handbag, a vase, a child, a ring, an idea My hands are tired of holding .They simply want to fold themselves

هي قصيدة للشاعرة إرنت مول، في هذه القصيدة يأخذنا الشاعر في رحلة مزارع، حيث يكتشف بعض الحملان التي تهاجمها الثعالب في الحقول، ويوثق انتقامه.

,Never trust a mirror ,For the mirror always lies ,It makes you think that all your worth .Can be seen from the outside

From cocoon forth a butterfly As lady from her door —Emerged — a summer afternoon ,Repairing everywhere

,One need not be a chamber to be haunted ;One need not be a house The brain has corridors surpassing .Material place

,Departed to the judgment ;A mighty afternoon ,Great clouds like ushers leaning .Creation looking on

Mild the mist upon the hill ;Telling not of storms tomorrow ,No, the day has wept its fill .Spent its store of silent sorrow

Come hither, child — who gifted thee ?With power to touch that string so well ,How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me ?Thoughts that I would — but cannot quell

,For him who struck thy foreign string ;I ween this heart has ceased to care Then why dost thou such feelings bring ?To my sad spirit—old Guitar

;Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away ;Lengthen night and shorten day

Yes, holy be thy resting place ;Wherever thou may’st lie ,The sweetest winds breathe on thy face .The softest of the sky

,The sale began—young girls were there       ,Defenseless in their wretchedness Whose stifled sobs of deep despair       .Revealed their anguish and distress

The gray path glided before me ;Through cool, green shadows Little leaves hung in the soft air ;Like drowsy moths

,In the evenings of my childhood ,when I went to bed ,music washed into the cove of my room .my door open to a slice of light

which do you love more a feather or a rock 'to be good is to be 'natural I mean to appear

,It's just getting dark, fog drifting in ,damp grasses fragrant with anise and mint and though I call his name ,until my voice cracks

;Laugh, and the world laughs with you ;Weep, and you weep alone ,For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth .But has trouble enough of its own

They say the world is round, and yet ,I often think it square So many little hurts we get .From corners here and there

Last Night I saw the savage world And heard the blood beat up the stair The fox’s bark the owl’s shrewd pounce The crying creatures all were there