قصائد أجنبية

?Oh mother, mother, where is happiness ,They took my lover's tallness off to war Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess .What I can use an empty heart-cup for

.Abortions will not let you forget ,You remember the children you got that you did not get ,The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair .The singers and workers that never handled the air

.I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life I want a peek at the back .Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows .A girl gets sick of a rose

It was good tonight ,To polish brass with you Our hands slightly gritty With Brasso, as they would feel .If we'd been in the sea, salty

,My box is made of golden oak .my lover’s gift to me He fitted hinges and a lock .of brass and a bright key

They flash upon that inward eye‘ ’which is the bliss of solitude (from ‘The Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth)

Snow falls on the cooling towers .delicately settling on cranes Machinery's old bones whiten; death .settles with its rusts, its erosions

,The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day ,There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away ,And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide .Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride  ,The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars

,Felix Randal the farrier, O is he dead then? my duty all ended Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it, and some ?Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended

,I give back to the earth what the earth gave ,All to the furrow, none to the grave ;The candle’s out, the spirit’s vigil spent .Sight may not follow where the vision went

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