قصائد أجنبية

,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

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

,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

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.

?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

,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

,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

The dog trots freely in the street and sees reality and the things he sees are bigger than himself

Praise the restless beds Praise the beds that do not adjust that won't lift the head to feed or lower for shots

Beanville. Tea party. Five black cats & a white boy. Chitlin ,circuit. Gravy-colored suits

.We’re having a Halloween party at school !I’m dressed up like Dracula. Man, I look cool .I dyed my hair black, and I cut off my bangs .I’m wearing a cape and some fake plastic fangs

,They are the raw, monotonous skies The faded placards and iron rails .Passed by in narrow streets of rain Theirs are the indistinct thin cries

?Who would be a turtle who could help it ,A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet she can ill afford the chances she must take .in rowing toward the grasses that she eats

.I hadn’t met his kind before ,His misericord face – really like a joke on his father – blurred ;as if from years of polish

He poured the coffee Into the cup He put the milk Into the cup of coffee

Once I lived the life of a millionaire Spending my money and I didn’t care Taking my friends out for a mighty fine time Drinking high priced liquor, champagne and wine

/spring came the same way winter left summer will come& summer will leave; slowly& when no one's expecting it/

,I only have a moment so let me tell you the shortest story ,about arriving at a long loved place, the house of friends in Maine their lawn of wildflowers, their grandfather clock and candid

.A poem is a gesture toward home .It makes dark demands I call my own :Memory makes demands darker than my own .My last love drove a burgundy car