poesie - l anglaise

Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water's roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And...

So I have put away the books and I watch the last apples fall from the frosty trees and I have seen also acorns stretching red shoots into the hard soil and the white bark of the birches was more to me than all the pages and what I read there bared my...

But I would rather be horizontal. I am not a tree with my root in the soil Sucking up minerals and motherly love So that each March I may gleam into leaf, Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted, Unknowing...

The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere - The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year: It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir...

Mes poèmes ne sont pas des "poèmes de la nature", mais des poèmes de la terre. La "nature" est trop humanisée. La terre est toujours une force nue, et le sera toujours. Les poètes sont de la terre dans le noir et dans la lumière. Il y a une expression...

I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet, Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infant’s cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles...

NEVER seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. Ah! she did depart! Soon after she was gone from me,...

O for a voice like thunder, and a tongue to drown the throat of war! - When the senses are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness, who can stand? When the souls of the oppressed fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand? When the whirlwind...

The silver Swan, who living had no Note, when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat. Leaning her breast upon the reedy shore, thus sang her first and last, and sang no more: "Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes! "More Geese than Swans...