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On the Death of a Young Lady

Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him.

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay, where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
Not worth nor beauty have her life redeem'd.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here, the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not her the muse her virtues would relate.

But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers

[...] Read more

poem by Byron (1802)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature

The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron

Byron and Shelley and Keats
Were a trio of Lyrical treats.
The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls,
And Keats never was a descendant of earls,
And Byron walked out with a number of girls,
But it didn't impair the poetical feats
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.

poem by Dorothy Parker
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Love, a good conductor

Your tone over phone, neither feminine nor masculine,
Once in a week or so, nervous, and with hidden passion,
Nevertheless, resonates to my senses in repetition
Like a bruised gramophone record, you in my vision.
25.11.99

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

classic quote by William Butler Yeats
Added by Dan Costinaş
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A Prayer On Going Into My House

GOD grant a blessing on this tower and cottage
And on my heirs, if all remain unspoiled,
No table or chair or stool not simple enough
For shepherd lads in Galilee; and grant
That I myself for portions of the year
May handle nothing and set eyes on nothing
But what the great and passionate have used
Throughout so many varying centuries
We take it for the norm; yet should I dream
Sinbad the sailor's brought a painted chest,
Or image, from beyond the Loadstone Mountain,
That dream is a norm; and should some limb of the Devil
Destroy the view by cutting down an ash
That shades the road, or setting up a cottage
Planned in a government office, shorten his life,
Manacle his soul upon the Red Sea bottom.

poem by William Butler Yeats
Added by Dan Costinaş
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A Curse Against Elegies

Oh, love, why do we argue like this?
I am tired of all your pious talk.
Also, I am tired of all the dead.
They refuse to listen,
so leave them alone.
Take your foot out of the graveyard,
they are busy being dead.

Everyone was always to blame:
the last empty fifth of booze,
the rusty nails and chicken feathers
that stuck in the mud on the back doorstep,
the worms that lived under the cat's ear
and the thin-lipped preacher
who refused to call
except once on a flea-ridden day
when he came scuffing in through the yard
looking for a scapegoat.
I hid in the kitchen under the ragbag.

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Sexton
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Self-Portrait

Lucian Blaga is as mute as a swan.
In his homeland
a creature’s snow stands for the word.
His spirit is in quest
in age-old mute quest
since all times
and up to the ultimate bounds, without rest.
He is in quest of the water of which the rainbow drinks.
He is in quest of the water
of which the rainbow
drinks its beauty and non-being.

poem by Lucian Blaga from Unsuspected Steps (1943), translated by Dan Duţescu
Added by Dan Costinaş
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