Favourite Poem

[Timo]

Ok, I got the idea when posting my favorite painting (because they are linked). I hope I didn't skip a favourite poem thread, but here goes. Post your favorite poem (preferably in english, since this isn't foreign language section).

Favorite English Poem:

La Bella Dame Sans Merci
by John Keats

(manuscript version, not the published one)







I

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

II

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

III

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

IV

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

V

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

VI

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

VII
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

VIII

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

IX

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

X

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

XI

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

XII

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.






Meaning and Story:
"The poet meets a knight by a woodland lake in late autumn. The man has been there for a long time, and is evidently dying.

The knight says he met a beautiful, wild-looking woman in a meadow. He visited with her, and decked her with flowers. She did not speak, but looked and sighed as if she loved him. He gave her his horse to ride, and he walked beside them. He saw nothing but her, because she leaned over in his face and sang a mysterious song. She spoke a language he could not understand, but he was confident she said she loved him. He kissed her to sleep, and fell asleep himself.

He dreamed of a host of kings, princes, and warriors, all pale as death. They shouted a terrible warning -- they were the woman's slaves. And now he was her slave, too. Awakening, the woman was gone, and the knight was left on the cold hillside."

[Nerthus]

Nice thread idea.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Death Experience

We know nothing of this going away, that
shares nothing with us. We have no reason,
whether astonishment and love or hate,
to display Death, whom a fantastic mask

of tragic lament astonishingly disfigures.
Now the world is still full of roles which we play
as long as we make sure, that, like it or not,
Death plays, too, although he does not please us.

But when you left, a strip of reality broke
upon the stage through the very opening
through which you vanished: Green, true green,
true sunshine, true forest.

We continue our play. Picking up gestures
now and then, and anxiously reciting
that which was difficult to learn; but your far away,
removed out of our performance existence,

sometimes overcomes us, as an awareness
descending upon us of this very reality,
so that for a while we play Life
rapturously, not thinking of any applause.


Todeserfahrung

Wir wissen nichts von diesem Hingehn, das
nicht mit uns teilt. Wir haben keinen Grund,
Bewunderung und Liebe oder Haß
dem Tod zu zeigen, den ein Maskenmund

tragischer Klage wunderlich entstellt.
Noch ist die Welt voll Rollen, die wir spielen,
solang wir sorgen, ob wir auch gefielen,
spielt auch der Tod, obwohl er nicht gefällt.

Doch als du gingst, da brach in diese Bühne
ein Streifen Wirklichkeit durch jenen Spalt,
durch den du hingingst: Grün wirklicher Grüne,
wirklicher Sonnenschein, wirklicher Wald.

Wir spielen weiter. Bang und schwer Erlerntes
hersagend und Gebärden dann und wann
aufhebend; aber dein von uns entferntes,
aus unserm Stück entrücktes Dasein kann

uns manchmal überkommen, wie ein Wissen
von jener Wirklichkeit sich niedersenkend,
so daß wir eine Weile hingerissen
das Leben spielen, nicht an Beifall denkend.

[Ederico]

A poem by Rudyard Kipling on Mithras, which was inspired from a Roman inscription in Brittania in honour of the divinity Mithras, when I'll find it I'll post it.

[Ederico]

[Source: A Song To Mithras]

A Song to Mithras
(Hymn of the XXX Legion: circa 350 A.D.)
Rudyard Kipling

MITHRAS, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall!
‘Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!’
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!

Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat.
Our helmets scorch our foreheads, our sandals burn our feet.
Now in the ungirt hour—now ere we blink and drowse,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!

Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main—
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!

Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great bull dies,
Look on thy children in darkness. Oh take our sacrifice!
Many roads thou hast fashioned—all of them lead to the Light,
Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright!

[Nerthus]

Ludwig Uhland

I Had a Comrade

In battle he was my comrade,
None better I have had.
The drum called us to fight,
He always on my right,
In step, through good and bad.
A bullet it flew towards us,
For him or meant for me?
His life from mine it tore,
At my feet a piece of gore,
As if a part of me.

His hand reached up to hold mine.
I must re-load my gun.
"My friend, I cannot ease your pain,
In life eternal we'll meet again,
And walk once more as one."


Ich hatt' einen Kameraden

Ich hatt' einen Kameraden
Einen bessern findst du nit.
Die Trommel schlug zum Streite,
Er ging an meiner Seite
In gleichem Schritt und Tritt.

Eine Kugel kam geflogen:
Gilt's mir oder gilt es dir?
Ihn hat es weggerissen,
Er liegt vor meinen Füßen
Als wär's ein Stück von mir

Will mir die Hand noch reichen,
Derweil ich eben lad'.
"Kann dir die Hand nicht geben,
Bleib du im ew'gen Leben
Mein guter Kamerad!"

[etoile noir]

i'm going very low brow here i know. but this is a poem that kept me sane and restored peace of mind on so many occassion .... it deserves a mention. cant even remember the name or the poet, but can remember every word ....

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare."

[Zyklop]

Originally Posted by Ederico Figallo

A poem by Rudyard Kipling on Mithras, which was inspired from a Roman inscription in Brittania in honour of the divinity Mithras, when I'll find it I'll post it.

Blood Axis made a song of this poem. It´s called Lord of Ages.

[Alkman]

The Satrapy

What a misfortune, although you are made
for fine and great works
this unjust fate of yours always
denies you encouragement and success;
that base customs should block you;
and pettiness and indifference.
And how terrible the day when you yield
(the day when you give up and yield),
and you leave on foot for Susa,
and you go to the monarch Artaxerxes
who favorably places you in his court,
and offers you satrapies and the like.
And you accept them with despair
these things that you do not want.
Your soul seeks other things, weeps for other things;
the praise of the public and the Sophists,
the hard-won and inestimable Well Done;
the Agora, the Theater, and the Laurels.
How can Artaxerxes give you these,
where will you find these in a satrapy;
and what life can you live without these.



Dangerous things

Said Myrtias (a Syrian student
in Alexandria; in the reign of
Augustus Constans and Augustus Constantius;
in part a pagan, and in part a christian);
"Fortified by theory and study,
I shall not fear my passions like a coward.
I shall give my body to sensual delights,
to enjoyments dreamt-of,
to the most daring amorous desires,
to the lustful impulses of my blood, without
any fear, for whenever I want --
and I shall have the will, fortified
as I shall be by theory and study --
at moments of crisis I shall find again
my spirit,ascetic,as before."




AS MUCH AS YOU CAN


And if you can't shape your life the way you want,
at least try as much as you can
not to degrade it
by too much contact with the world,
by too much activity and talk.

Try not to degrade it by dragging it along,
taking it around and exposing it so often
to the daily silliness
of social events and parties,
until it comes to seem a boring hanger-on.






Constantine P. Cavafy

[Ederico]

Originally Posted by Zyklop

Blood Axis made a song of this poem. It´s called Lord of Ages.

I have that song, it is actually through the song that I discovered the poem.
Great song.

[Faísca]

De leste a oeste comandámos, Onde o sal vai, pisámos nós. Ao luar de ignotos fins buscámos A glória, inéditos e sós. Hoje a derrota é a nossa vida Doença o nosso sono brando. Para quando é a nova lida, Ó mãe Ibéria, para quando? Dois povos vêm da mesma raça Da mãe comum dois filhos nados, Hispanha, glória, orgulho e graça, Portugal, a saudade e a espada, Mas hoje... clama no ermo insulso Quem fomos por quem somos, chamando. Para quando é o novo impulso Ó mãe Ibéria, para quando?

From east to west we commanded, Where the salt goes, we have set foot. On the moonlight of humble ends we searched The glory, first and alone. Today defeat is our life Illness our gentle sleep. For when is the new lead, Oh mother Iberia, for when? Two peoples come from the same race From the common mother two sons were born, Spain, glory, pride and grace, Portugal, nostalgia* and the sword. But today... claims in the insipid loneliness Who we were for what we are, calling. For when is the new impulse, Oh mother Iberia, for when?

Fernando Pessoa

* Nostalgia is not really the proper translation of saudade, as it has actually no translation.

PS: Sorry about the lousy translation.

[Zyklop]

I´m not a Christian but I like this poem:

Cold Iron by Rudyard Kipling


Gold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade."
"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of them all."

So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
"Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- shall be master of you all!"

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron -- Cold Iron -- was master of it all!

Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?"
"Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all."

"Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown --
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown."
"As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
"Here is Bread and here is Wine -- sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron -- Cold Iron -- can be master of men all!"

He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread.
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
"See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron -- Cold Iron -- to be master of men all."

"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason -- I redeem thy fall --
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"

"Crowns are for the valiant -- sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!"
"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!"

[Menydh]

Originally Posted by Aeternitas

Ludwig Uhland

I Had a Comrade

In battle he was my comrade,
None better I have had.
The drum called us to fight,
He always on my right,
In step, through good and bad.
A bullet it flew towards us,
For him or meant for me?
His life from mine it tore,
At my feet a piece of gore,
As if a part of me.

His hand reached up to hold mine.
I must re-load my gun.
"My friend, I cannot ease your pain,
In life eternal we'll meet again,
And walk once more as one."


Ich hatt' einen Kameraden

Ich hatt' einen Kameraden
Einen bessern findst du nit.
Die Trommel schlug zum Streite,
Er ging an meiner Seite
In gleichem Schritt und Tritt.

Eine Kugel kam geflogen:
Gilt's mir oder gilt es dir?
Ihn hat es weggerissen,
Er liegt vor meinen Füßen
Als wär's ein Stück von mir

Will mir die Hand noch reichen,
Derweil ich eben lad'.
"Kann dir die Hand nicht geben,
Bleib du im ew'gen Leben
Mein guter Kamerad!"

Yo tenía un camarada

Yo tenía un camarada
entre todos el mejor
siempre juntos caminábamos
siempre juntos avanzábamos
al redoble del tambor (bis).

Lejos suena una metralla
¿va por ti o va por mi?
A mis pies cayó herido
el amigo más querido
y en su faz la muerte vi. (bis)

¡Gloria! ¡Gloria!
¡Gloria y Victoria!
Con el cuerpo y con el alma
con las armas en la mano
por la Patria.

[...]

(only sung at the funerals for the fallen).

[Nerthus]

I like these by Kipling:

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

----------------------------------------------------
The Explanation

Love and Death once ceased their strife
At the Tavern of Man's Life.
Called for wine, and threw -- alas! --
Each his quiver on the grass.
When the bout was o'er they found
Mingled arrows strewed the ground.
Hastily they gathered then
Each the loves and lives of men.
Ah, the fateful dawn deceived!
Mingled arrows each one sheaved;
Death's dread armoury was stored
With the shafts he most abhorred;
Love's light quiver groaned beneath
Venom-headed darts of Death.

Thus it was they wrought our woe
At the Tavern long ago.
Tell me, do our masters know,
Loosing blindly as they fly,
Old men love while young men die?

[Menydh]

Este ejército que ves

vago al yelo y al calor,

la república mejor

y más política es

del mundo, en que nadie espere

que ser preferido pueda

por la nobleza que hereda,

sino por la que el adquiere;

porque aquí a la sangre excede

el lugar que uno se hace

y sin mirar cómo nace

se mira como procede.



Aquí la necesidad

no es infamia; y si es honrado,

pobre y desnudo un soldado

tiene mejor cualidad

que el más galán y lucido;

porque aquí a lo que sospecho

no adorna el vestido el pecho

que el pecho adorna al vestido.



Y así, de modestia llenos,

a los más viejos verás

tratando de ser lo más

y de aparentar lo menos.



Aquí la más principal

hazaña es obedecer,

y el modo cómo ha de ser

es ni pedir ni rehusar.



Aquí, en fin, la cortesía,

el buen trato, la verdad,

la firmeza, la lealtad,

el valor, la bizarría,

el crédito, la opinión,

la constancia, la paciencia,

la humildad y la obediencia,

fama, honor y vida son

caudal de pobres soldados;

que en buena o mala fortuna

la milicia no es más que una

religión de hombres honrados.



Pedro Calderón de la Barca
Soldado de Infantería de los Tercios Españoles
e Insigne Poeta


(Non Translatable to foreign, heretic languages)

[Nerthus]

Back to German stuff

Rainer Maria Rilke

Ich fürchte mich so vor der Menschen Wort

Ich fürchte mich so vor der Menschen Wort.
Sie sprechen alles so deutlich aus:
Und dieses heißt Hund und jenes heißt Haus,
und hier ist Beginn und das Ende ist dort.

Mich bangt auch ihr Sinn, ihr Spiel mit dem Spott,
sie wissen alles, was wird und war;
kein Berg ist ihnen mehr wunderbar;
ihr Garten und Gut grenzt grade an Gott.

Ich will immer warnen und wehren: Bleibt fern.
Die Dinge singen hör ich so gern.
Ihr rührt sie an: sie sind starr und stumm.
Ihr bringt mir alle die Dinge um.

I shudder with fear for the word of man

I shudder with fear for the word of man.
Everything he proclaims is so precise.
This is called Dog and that is called House,
and here is the beginning and there is the end.

I worry about sense, their play with derision.
They know everything that's been and shall be;
no mountain is still to them wonderful;
their gardens and goods border on God.

I want always to warn and resist: Stay away.
To hear things sing is what pleases me most.
You touch them: they are stiff and mute.
You raze to the ground that which is to me dear.

--------------------------------------------------------

Einsamkeit

Einsamkeit ist wie ein Regen.
S