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« poslato: 23.01.2007. 17:26:50 »

Ovde mozete postovati pesme svojih najdrazih pesnika, nevezanih za SciFi, od starih klasika za sva vremena (kojih se uvek treba podsetiti, svakako) do najnovijih, koje ste mozda jos jutros procitali...
Pocinjem ja, jednim od svojih najdrazih stvaralaca.

Vladislav Petkovic Dis

KAKO MI JE
  
Od nekoga doba izgleda mi kao
Da ce  se moje zamutiti oko,
Dusa i zelje i sve sto sam znao
Gubi se,pasce u mracno, duboko.
  
Miran sam..ni trun srdzbe ili cega
Sto pravi smesnim nemocne i jadne,
Smrt, vecno ziva, buducnost je svega –
Sveg sto rodjenjem u kolevku padne.
  
Nekad, dok mladost, prolazna i bludna,
Vodjena strascu koja razum pleni,
Gotovo uvek i za porok budna –
Nekad, dok mladost zivljase u meni,
  
Smejah se cesto, podrugljivo vazda,
Prirodi, Bogu, i govorah smelo,
Da onaj koji oblicja nam sazda
Ucini sramno,kukavicko delo.
                                                                                                    
I pricah sebi da cu jednom moci,
Sa mislju koju velicina daje,
Zderati zastor s neprovidnih noci,
Videti prostor i vecnost kakva je,
  
I da cu otud trag bezumlju znati,
I gde je proslost sa bezbrojno zrtvi,
Cije je vreme, ko je Bogu mati,
Nasto je zivot i kud idu mrtvi.
  
I tada kao sa vulkana lava,
Sipacu misli sto nas razum prze –
Tresce se vecnost i pucina plava,
I svi atomi koji svetlost drze.



Pesme u ovoj temi:

Kako mi je - Vladislav Petković Dis
Spustivši glavu... - P. Kočić
Santa Maria della Salute - Laza Kostić
Dolap - Milan Rakić
Iskrena pesma - Milan Rakić
Lament nad Beogradom - Miloš Crnjanski
Život - Miloš Crnjanski
Pismo majci - Sergej Jesenjin
U snu san - Edgar Alan Po
Opomena - Antun Branko Šimić
Veče na školju - Aleksa Šantić
Neverna žena - F.G. Lorka
Bajka - Desanka Maksimović
Nirvana - Vladislav Petković Dis
Osmeh - Đura Jakšić
Јевропи - Đura Jakšić
Хеј, Словени -
Марш на Дрину -
Тамо далеко -
Југославији - Милош Црњански
На Гази Местану - Милан Ракић
Otadžbina - Đura Jakšić
Ja volim sreću... - Branko Miljković
Женидба Душанова -
О Љубави - Сергej Јесењин
Kralj i prepelica - Aleksa Šantić
Strepnja - Desanka Maksimović
Babaroga - Ljubivoje Ršumović
Begunci od kuće - Ljubivoje Ršumović
Jedna slatka aždaja Tereza - Ljubivoje Ršumović
Tužica jednog zmaja - Ljubivoje Ršumović
Zelena rijeko - Enes Begović
Modra Rijeka - Mak Dizdar
Neprijatelj - Šarl Bodler
Mačka - Šarl Bodler
Jastuk za dvoje - Mika Antić
Iz Vukodava - Marija Semjonova
Pesma Rastanka (deo) - Silmarilion - Tolkin
Ako - Radjard Kipling
Put kojim ne krenuh - Robert Frost
Keruša - Sergej Jesenjin
Шаганэ ты моя, Шаганэ! - Sergej Jesenjin
Ljuta Julka - Dušan Radović
Anabel Li - Edgar Alan Po
Kanconijer (odlomci) - Frančesko Petrarka
Ljubomora - Branko V.Radičević
Razgovori s mojim psom - Aleksandar Marković
Gavran - Edgar Alan Po
Molitva s razuzdanim završetkom - Magda Kovač
Molitva pred gašenje lampe - Agneš Gergej
*   *   * - Mika Antić
Вечера у крчми код „Знака питања“ - Милорад Павић
46. mi je godina - Dušan Vukajlović
Ditiramb ženi - Ђула Ијеш
Kroj - Mika Antić
Ja, ti, i svi savremeni ljubavnici - Miloš Crnjanski
Drvo spava - Duško Radović
Pesma za moj 27. rođendan - Branko Miljković
Još je tu - Bruno Koić
Možda spava - Vladislav Petković Dis
Gradinar - Rabindranat Tagore
Čekaj me - Konstantin Simonov
Notturno - Tin Ujević
Predosećaj - Artur Rembo
Albatros - Šarl Bodler
Leta - Šarl Bodler
Mačke - Šarl Bodler
Plava grobnica - Milutin Bojić
Onima što plaču - Milutin Bojić
Dovidjenja, druže moj - Sergej Jesenjin
Zimsko veče - Aleksandar Sergejevič Puškin
Nemam više vremena - Desanka Maksimović
Molba mladosti - Desanka Maksimović
Himna - Milutin Bojić
Molitva - Milutin Bojić
Ofelija - Artur Rembo
Svakidašnja jadikovka - Tin Ujević
« Poslednja izmena: 13.04.2011. 01:29:10 od dan555 » Sačuvana

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« Odgovor #1 poslato: 23.01.2007. 19:16:32 »

Spustivši glavu na moje grudi,
Plakala ti si, nevino čedo,
A tvoje nežne i bujne vlasi,
Skrivahu lice turobno bledo.
I ja sam plako, gledeći tebe
I bujni potok suza je teko,
Ali sam ipak presrećan bio,
Jer ljubav sam za ljubav steko.

P. Kočić
Sačuvana

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« Odgovor #2 poslato: 23.01.2007. 19:23:05 »

Laza Kostić
Santa Maria della Salute

Oprosti, majko sveta, oprosti,
     što naših gora požalih bor,
na kom se, ustuk svakoj zlosti,
     blaženoj tebi podiže dvor;
prezri, nebesnice, vrelo milosti,
     što ti zemaljski sagreši stvor:
Kajan ti ljubim prečiste skute,
Santa Maria della Salute.

Zar nije lepše nosit' lepotu,
     svodova tvojih postati stub,
nego grejući svetsku lepotu
     u pep'o spalit' srce i lub;
tonut' o brodu, trunut' u plotu,
     đavolu jelu a vragu dub?
Zar nije lepše vekovat' u te,
Santa Maria della Salute?

Oprosti, majko, mnogo sam strad'o,
     mnoge sam grehe pokaj'o ja;
sve što je srce snivalo mlado,
     sve je to jave slomio ma',
za čim sam čezn'o, čemu se nad'o,
     sve je to davno pep'o i pra',
na ugod živu pakosti žute,
Santa Maria della Salute.

Trovala me je podmuklo, gnjilo,
     al' ipak neću nikoga klet';
štagod je muke na meni bilo,
     da nikog za to ne krivi svet:
Jer, što je duši lomilo krilo,
     te joj u jeku dušilo let,
sve je to s ove glave sa lude,
Santa Maria della Salute!

Tad moja vila preda me granu,
     lepše je ovaj ne vide vid;
iz crnog mraka divna mi svanu,
     k'o pesma slavlja u zorin svit,
svaku mi mahom zaleči ranu,
     al' težoj rani nastade brid:
Šta ću od milja, od muke ljute,
Santa Maria della Salute?

Ona me glednu. U dušu svesnu
     nikad još takav ne sinu gled;
tim bi, što iz tog pogleda kresnu,
     svih vasiona stopila led,
sve mi to nudi za čim god čeznu',
     jade pa slade, čemer pa med,
svu svoju dušu, sve svoje žude,
— svu večnost za te, divni trenute!
— Santa Maria della Salute.

Zar meni jadnom sva ta divota?
     Zar meni blago toliko sve?
Zar meni starom, na dnu života,
     ta zlatna voćka što sad tek zre?
Oh, slatka voćko, tantalskog roda,
     što nisi meni sazrela pre?
Oprosti meni grešne zalute,
Santa Maria della Salute.

Dve u meni pobiše sile,
     mozak i srce, pamet i slast.
Dugo su bojak strahovit bile,
     k'o besni oluj i stari hrast:
Napokon sile sustaše mile,
     vijugav mozak održa vlast,
razlog i zapon pameti hude,
Santa Maria della Salute.

Pamet me stegnu, ja srce stisnu',
     utekoh mudro od sreće, lud,
utekoh od nje — a ona svisnu.
     Pomrča sunce, večita stud,
gasnuše zvevde, raj u plač briznu,
     smak sveta nasta i strašni sud. —
O, svetski slome, o strašni sude,
Santa Maria della Salute!

U srcu slomljen, zbunjen u glavi,
     spomen je njezin sveti mi hram.
Tad mi se ona od onud javi,
     k'o da se Bog mi pojavi sam:
U duši bola led mi se kravi,
     kroz nju sad vidim, od nje sve znam,
za što se mudrački mozgovi mute,
Santa Maria della Salute.

Dođe mi u snu. Ne kad je zove
     silnih mi želja navreli roj,
ona mi dođe kad njojzi gove,
     tajne su sile sluškinje njoj.
Navek su sa njom pojave nove,
     zemnih milina nebeski kroj.
Tako mi do nje prostire pute,
Santa Maria della Salute.

U nas je sve k'o u muza i žene,
     samo što nije briga i rad,
sve su miline, al' nežežene,
     strast nam se blaži u rajski hlad;
starija ona sad je od mene,
     tamo ću biti dosta joj mlad,
gde svih vremena razlike ćute,
Santa Maria della Salute.

A naša deca pesme su moje,
     tih sastanaka večiti trag;
to se ne piše, to se ne poje,
     samo što dušom probije zrak.
To razumemo samo nas dvoje,
     to je i raju prinovak drag,
to tek u zanosu proroci slute,
Santa Maria della Salute.

A kad mi dođe da prsne glava
     o mog života hridovit kraj,
najlepši san mi postaće java,
     moj ropac njeno: "Evo me, naj!"
Iz ništavila u slavu slava,
     iz beznjenice u raj, u raj!
U raj, u raj, u njezin zagrljaj!
Sve će se želje tu da probude,
     dušine žice sve da progude,
zadivićemo svetske kolute,
     zvezdama ćemo pomerit' pute,
suncima zasut' seljanske stude,
     da u sve kute zore zarude,
da od miline dusi polude,
Santa Maria della Salute.
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« Odgovor #3 poslato: 24.01.2007. 10:41:15 »

Kako je ovo dobra pesma. Nekada sam pokusavao da je naucim napamet, ali nisam imao volje da zavrsim.
A jednom sam imao priliku da slusamo Beckovica kako je recituje (ovo se odnosi na Santa Maria della Salute).
No, evo i mog doprinosa temi:

Milan Rakic - Dolap


Ja znam jedan dolap. Crn, glomazan, truo,
Stoji kao spomen iz prastarih dana.
Njegovu sam škripu kao dete čuo;
Stara gruba sprava davno mi je znana.

Jedan mali vranac okreće ga tromo,
Malaksao davno od teškoga truda;
Vuče bedno kljuse sipljivo i hromo,
Bič ga bije, ular steže, žulji ruda.

Vranče! Ti si bio pun snage i volje,
I dolap si stari okretao živo;
Tešila te nada da će biti bolje;
Mlad i snažan, ti si zlatne snove sniv'o.

Al' je prošlo vreme preko tvoje glave,
Iznemoglo telo, malaksale moći;
Poznao si život i nevolje prave,
I julijske žege, i studene noći.
O, kako te žalim! - Gle, suze me guše,
Olišena sudbo svih života redom! -
Tebe, braću ljude, i sve žive duše,
Jednake pred opštom, neminovnom bedom...
Podne. Ti bi vode. Ko će ti je dati?
Tu kraj tvojih nogu žuboreci teče.
Ali bič fijukne... Napred! Nemoj stati,
Dok ne padne najzad spasonosno veče.

Podne. Ti si gladan. Ti bi trave hteo;
Svuda oko tebe buja trava gusta,
I mirise njene cuv donosi vreo.
Ali bič fijukne: zbogom, nado pusta!

Ti si kao i ja, mladosti rane,
Osetio opštu sudbu što nas gazi,
I gladan i žedan provodio dane
Sve u uskom krugu, sve na istoj stazi.

Ti si kao i ja, na julijskoj žezi,
Dok žubori voda kraj tebe u viru,
Sanjao o sreći, nagradi i nezi,
Sanjao o dobrom, zasluženom miru.

O! k'o zmija ljuta košuljicu svoju,
Ostaviti bedu, nesreću, i zlobu,
I udarce biča stečene u znoju,
I svemoćnu podlost, i opštu gnusobu!...

Pusti snovi!... Napred, vranče, nemoj stati,
Ne miriši travu, ne osećaj vir:
Nagradu za trude nebo će ti dati,
Mračnu, dobru raku, i večiti mir!
« Poslednja izmena: 21.04.2009. 18:38:57 od dan555 » Sačuvana

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then you need an airplane.
Then you're truly wireless.
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« Odgovor #4 poslato: 24.01.2007. 10:45:26 »

I jos jedna od Milana Rakica:

Iskrena pesma

O sklopi usne, ne govori, ćuti,
Ostavi dušu, nek' spokojno sniva -
Dok kraj nas lišće na drveću žuti,
I laste lete put toplijih krajeva.

O sklopi usne, ne miči se, ćuti!
Ostavi misli, nek' se bujno roje,
I reč nek' tvoja ničim ne pomuti
Bezmerno silne osjećaje moje.

Ćuti, i pusti da sad zile moje
Zabrekću novim zanosnim životom,
Da zaboravim da smo tu nas dvoje,
Pred veličanstvom prirode! A po tom,

Kad prođe sve, i malaksalo telo
Ponovo padne u običnu čamu,
I život nov, i nadahnuće celo,
Nečujno, tiho, potone u tamu -

Ja ću ti, draga, opet reći tada
Otužnu pesmu o ljubavi, kako
Čeznem i stradam i ljubim te, mada
U tom trenutku ne osećam tako...


A ti ćeš, bedna ženo, kao vazda,
Slusati rado ove reči lažne:
I zahvalićeš bogu što te sazda,
I oči će ti biti suzom vlažne.

I gledajući, vrh zaspalih njiva,
Kako se spušta nema polutama,
Ti nećeš znati šta u meni biva, -
Da ja u tebi volim sebe sama,


I moju ljubav naspram tebe, kad me
Obuzme celog silom koju ima,
I svaki živac rastrese i nadme,
I osećaji navale k'o plima!

Za taj trenutak života i milja,
Kad zatreperi cela moja snaga,
Neka te srce moje blagosilja!
Al' ne volim te, ne volim te, draga!

I zato ću ti uvek reći: Ćuti!
Ostavi dušu, nek' spokojno sniva -
Dok kraj nas lišće na drveću žuti,
I tama pada vrh zaspalih njiva.
Sačuvana

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then you need an airplane.
Then you're truly wireless.
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« Odgovor #5 poslato: 24.01.2007. 10:49:14 »

I naravno poema Gavran, objavljena u prvom (i za sada jedinom) broju fanzina.
Sačuvana

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« Odgovor #6 poslato: 24.01.2007. 13:56:06 »

Moj daleko najdrazi stvaralac, Milos Crnjanski...


Lament nad Beogradom


JAN MAJEN i moj Srem,
Paris, moji mrtvi drugovi, tresnje u Kini,
prividjaju mi se jos, dok ovde cutim, bdim i mrem
i lezim, hladan, kao na pepelu klada.
Samo, to vise i nismo mi, zivot, a ni zvezde,
nego samo cudovista, polipi, delfini,
sto se tumbaju preko nas, i plove i jezde,
i urlicu: " Prah, pepeo, smrt je to."
A vicu i rusko "nicevo" -
i spansko "nada".


Ti, medjutim, rastes, uz zornjacu jasnu,
sa Avalom plavom u daljini, kao breg.
Ti treperis, i kad ovde zvezde gasnu,
i topis, ko Sunce, i led suza, i lanjski sneg.
U Tebi nema besmisla, ni smrti.
Ti sjajis kao iskopan stari mac.
U Tebi sve vaskrsne, i zaigra, pa se vrti,
i ponavlja, kao dan i detinji plac.
A kad mi se glas, i oci, i dah, upokoje,
Ti ces me, znam, uzeti na krilo svoje.


ESPANJA i nas Hvar,
Dobrovic mrtvi, sejk sto se u Sahari beli,
prividjaju mi se jos, kao utvare, vatre, var.
Moj Sibe poludeli, zinuo kao pes.
Samo, to vise nismo mi, u mladosti i moci,
vec neki papagaji, cimpanzi, neveseli,
sto mi se smeju i vriste u mojoj samoci.
Jedan se "Leiche! Leiche! Leiche! " dere.
Drugi mi sapuce: "Cadavere!"
Treci: " Les, les,les."


Ti, medjutim, siris kao labud krila,
zaborav, na Dunav i Savu, dok spavaju.
Ti budis veselost, sto je nekad bila,
kikot, tu, i u mom kriku, vrisku, i vapaju.
U Tebi nema crva, ni sa groba.
Ti blistas, kao kroz suze ljudski smeh.
U Tebi jedan orac peva, i u zimsko doba,
prelivsi krv, kao vino, u novi meh.
A kad mi klone glava i budu stali sati,
Ti ces me, znam, poljubiti kao mati.


TI, PROSLOST, i moj svet,
mladost, ljubavi, gondole, i na nebu, Mljeci,
prividjate mi se jos, kao san, talas, lepi cvet,
u drustvu maski, koje je po meni doslo.
Samo, to nisam ja, ni Venecija sto se plavi,
nego neke rusevine, aveti, i stecci,
sto ostaju za nama na zemlji, i, u travi.
Pa kazu: " Tu lezi pasa! - Prosjak! - Pas!"
A vicu i francusko "tout passe".
I nase " proslo".


Ti, medjutim, stojis nad sirokom rekom,
nad ravnicom plodnom, tvrd, uzdignut kao stit.
Ti pevas vedro, sa grmljavinom dalekom,
i tkas u stoleca, sa munjama, i svoju nit.
U Tebi nema moje ljudske tuge.
Ti imas streljaca pogled prav i nem.
Ti i plac pretvaras kao dazd u sarene duge,
a hladis, ko dalek bor, kad te udahnem.
A kad dodje cas, da mi se srce staro stisa,
Tvoj ce bagren pasti na me kao kisa
.


LIZBUA i moj put,
u svet, kule u vazduhu i na morskoj peni,
prividjaju mi se jos, dok mi zizak drsce ko prut
i prenosim i zemlju, u sne, u sne, u sne.
Samo, to vise nisu, ni zene, ni ljudi zivi,
nego neke nemocne, slabe, i setne seni,
sto mi kazu, da nisu zveri, da nisu krivi,
da im zivot bas nista nije dao,
pa sapcu " nao, nao, nao"
i nase " ne, ne".


Ti, medjutim, dises, u nocnoj tisini,
do zvezda, sto kazuju put Suncu u tvoj san.
Ti slusas svog srca lupu, u dubini,
sto udara, ko stenom, u mracni Kalemegdan.
Tebi su nasi boli sitni mravi.
Ti biser suza nasih bacas u prah.
Ali se nad njima, posle, Tvoja zora zaplavi,
u koju se mlad i veseo zagledah.
A kad umorno srce moje ucuti, da spi,
uzglavlje meko ces mi, u snu, biti, Ti.



FINISTERE i njen stas,
brak, poljupci bura sto je tako silne bila,
prividjaju mi se jos, po neki leptir, bulke, klas,
dok, u proslosi, slusam, njen korak, tako lak.
Samo, to vise nije ona, ni njen glas nasmejan.
nego neki kormoran, divljih i crnih krila,
sto vice: zrak svake srece tone u Okean.
Pa mi mrmlja reci "tombe" i "sombre".
Pa kresti njino " ombre, ombre". -
i nas "grob" i "mrak".


Ti, medjutim, kreces, ko nas labud vecni,
iz smrti, u krvi, prema Suncu, na svoj put.
Dok meni dan tone u tvoj ponor recni,
Ti se dizes, iz jutra, sav zracima obasut.
Ja cu negde, sam, u Sahari, stati,
u onoj gde su karavani seni,
ali, ko sto uz mrtvog Tuarega cuci mati,
Ti ces, do smrti, biti uteha meni.
A kad mi slome dusu, koplje, ruku i nogu,
Tebe, Tebe, znam da ne mogu, ne mogu
.


ZIVOT ljudski, i hrt,
sveo list, galeb, srna, i Mesec na pucini,
prividjaju mi se, na kraju, ko san, kao i smrt
jednog po jednog glumca naseg pozorista.
Samo, sve to, i ja, nismo nikad ni bili vise,
nego neka pena, trenuci, sapat u Kini,
sto sapce, kao i srce, sve hladnije i tise:
da ne ostaju, ni Ming, ni yang, ni yin,
ni Tao, tresnje, ni mandarin.
Niko i nista.
Sačuvana

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-Honey-
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« Odgovor #7 poslato: 24.01.2007. 13:58:24 »

Zivot

Sve to ne zavisi od mene.


Setim se kako bese lep,
nad vodama dubokim nekim,
     kao Mesec beo,
sa lukom tankim i mekim,
         jedan most.


I, vidis, to utesi me.


Ne zavisi od mene.


Dosta je da tog dana,
zemlja oko mene zamirise preorana,
ili da oblaci prolete,
        malo nize,
     pa da me to potrese.


Ne, ne od mene.


Dosta ce biti ako, jedne zime,
iz vrta jednog zavejanog
istrci neko ozeblo, tudje, dete
                      i zagrli me.


Milos Crnjanski
Sačuvana

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« Odgovor #8 poslato: 24.01.2007. 14:49:58 »

Свака вам част, баш ових дана тражим неке песме за читање Smile))
Sačuvana



Доме доме, међу звездама,
где светови плешу, слободни.
И.А.
-Honey-
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« Odgovor #9 poslato: 24.01.2007. 16:02:45 »

Prilozi sta god se tebi dopada, Miki, bice to lep doprinos Wink
Inace, ako izrazis zelju nesto posebno da procitas, samo reci...potrudicemo se Very Happy
Sačuvana

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« Odgovor #10 poslato: 25.01.2007. 15:31:35 »

John Keats "Endymion"
Book 2


O sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,
And shadowy, through the mist of passed years:
For others, good or bad, hatred and tears
Have become indolent; but touching thine,
One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine,
One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.
The woes of Troy, towers smothering o’er their blaze,
Stiff-bolden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades,
Struggling, and blood, and shrieks—all dimly fades
Into some backward corner of the brain;
Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain
The close of Troïlus and Cressid sweet.
Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat!
Swart planet in the universe of deeds!
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds
Along the pebbled shore of memory!
Many old rotten-timber’d boats there be
Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified
To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,
And golden-keel’d, is left unlaunch’d and dry.
But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly
About the great Athenian admiral’s mast?
What care, though striding Alexander past
The Indus with his Macedonian numbers?
Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers
The glutted Cyclops, what care?—Juliet leaning
Amid her window-flowers,—sighing,—weaning
Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow,
Doth more avail than these: the silver flow
Of Hero’s tears, the swoon of Imogen,
Fair Pastorella in the bandit’s den,
Are things to brood on with more ardency
Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully
Must such conviction come upon his head.
Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread,
Without one muse’s smile, or kind behest,
The path of love and poesy. But rest,
In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear
Than to be crush’d, in striving to uprear
Love’s standard on the battlements of song,
So once more, days and nights, aid me along.
Like legion’d soldiers.

Brain-sick shepherd prince!
What promise hast thou faithful guarded since
The day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrows
Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows?
Alas! ’tis his old grief. For many days,
Has he been wandering in uncertain ways:
Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks;
Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes
Of the lone wood-cutter; and listening still,
Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill.
Now he is sitting by a shady spring,
And elbow-deep with feverous fingering
Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose-tree
Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see
A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now
He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how!
It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight;
And, in the middle, there is softly pight
A golden butterfly; upon whose wings
There must be surely character’d strange things,
For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.

Lightly this little herald flew aloft,
Follow’d by glad Endymion’s clasped hands:
Onward it flies. From languor’s sullen bands
His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.
It seem’d he flew, the way so easy was;
And like a new-born spirit did he pass
Through the green evening quiet in the sun
O’er many a heath, through many a woodland dun,
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams
The summer time away. One track unseams
A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue
Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew,
He sinks adown a solitary glen,
Where there was never sound of mortal men,
Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences
Melting to silence, when upon the breeze
Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet,
To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet
Went swift beneath the merry- winged guide,
Until it reach’d a splashing fountain’s side
That, near a cavern’s mouth, for ever pour’d
Unto the temperate air; then high it soar’d,
And, downward, suddenly began to dip,
As if, athirst with so much toil, ’twould sip
The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch
Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch
Even with mealy gold the waters clear.
But, at that very touch, to disappear
So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered,
Endymion sought around, and shook each bed
Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung
Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue,
What whisperer disturb’d his gloomy rest?
It was a nymph uprisen to the breast
In the fountain’s pebbly margin, and she stood
’Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood.
To him her dripping hand she softly kist,
And anxiously began to plait and twist
Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: “Youth!
Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth,
The bitterness of love: too long indeed,
Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed
Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer
All the bright riches of my crystal coffer
To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish,
Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,
Vermilion-tail’d, or finn’d with silvery gauze;
Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws
A virgin-light to the deep; my grotto-sands,
Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands
By my diligent springs: my level lilies, shells,
My charming-rod, my potent river spells;
Yes, everything, even to the pearly cup
Meander gave me,—for I bubbled up
To fainting creatures in a desert wild.
But woe is me, I am but as a child
To gladden thee; and all I dare to say,
Is, that I pity thee; that on this day
I’ve been thy guide; that thou must wander far
In other regions, past the scanty bar
To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta’en
From every wasting sigh, from every pain,
Into the gentle bosom of thy love.
Why
it is thus, one knows in heaven above:
But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell!
I have a ditty for my hollow cell.”

Hereat she vanish’d from Endymion’s gaze,
Who brooded o’er the water in amaze:
The dashing fount pour’d on, and where its pool
Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool,
Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still,
And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill
Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer,
Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr
Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down;
And, while beneath the evening’s sleepy frown
Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,
Thus breathed he to himself: “Whoso encamps
To take a fancied city of delight,
O what a wretch is he! and when ’tis his,
After long toil and travelling, to miss
The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile!
Yet, for him there’s refreshment even in toil
Another city doth he set about,
Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt
That he will seize on trickling honey- combs:
Alas! he finds them dry; and then he foams,
And onward to another city speeds.
But this is human life: the war, the deeds,
The disappointment, the anxiety,
Imagination’s struggles, far and nigh,
All human; bearing in themselves this good,
That they are still the air, the subtle food,
To make us feel existence, and to show
How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow,
Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me,
There is no depth to strike in: I can see
Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand
Upon a misty, jutting head of land—
Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean Iute,
When mad Eurydice is listening to’t,
I’d rather stand upon this misty peak,
With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek,
But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love,
Than be—I care not what. O meekest dove
Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair!
From thy blue throne, now filling all the air,
Glance but one little beam of temper’d light
Into my bosom, that the dreadful night
And tyranny of love be somewhat scared!
Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spared
Would give a pang to jealous misery,
Worse than the torment’s self: but rather tie
Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out
My love’s far dwelling. Though the playful rout
Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,
Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow
Not to have dipp’d in love’s most gentle stream
O be propitious, nor severely deem
My madness impious; for, by all the stars
That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars
That kept my spirit in are burst—that I
Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!
How beautiful thou art! The world how deep!
How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep
Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins,
How lithe! When this thy chariot attains
Its airy goal, haply some bower veils
Those twilight eyes? Those eyes!—my spirit fails;
Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air
Will gulf me—help!”—At this, with madden’d stare,
And lifted hands, and trembling lips, he stood;
Like old Deucalion mountain’d o’er the flood,
Or blind Orion hungry for the morn.
And, but from the deep cavern there was borne
A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone;
Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion’d moan
Had more been heard. Thus swell’d it forth: “Descend,
Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend
Into the sparry hollows of the world!
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl’d
As from thy threshold; day by day hast been
A little lower than the chilly sheen
Of icy pinnacles, and dipp’dst thine arms
Into the deadening ether that still charms
Their marble being: now, as deep profound
As those are high, descend! He ne’er is crown’d
With immortality, who fears to follow
Where airy voices lead: so through the hollow,
The silent mysteries of earth, descend!”

He heard but the last words, nor could contend
One moment in reflection: for he fled
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.

’Twas far too strange and wonderful for sadness;
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light,
The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly,
But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy;
A dusky empire and its diadems;
One faint eternal eventide of gems.
Ay, millions sparkled on a vein of gold,
Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told,
With all its lines abrupt and angular:
Out- shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star,
Through a vast antre; then the metal woof,
Like Vulcan’s rainbow, with some monstrous roof
Curves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss,
It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss
Fancy into belief: anon it leads
Through winding passages, where sameness breeds
Vexing conceptions of some sudden change;
Whether to silver grots, or giant range
Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge
Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge
Now fareth he, that o’er the vast beneath
Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth
A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come
But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb
His bosom grew, when first he, far away,
Described an orbed diamond, set to fray
Old Darkness from his throne: ’twas like the sun
Uprisen o’er chaos: and with such a stun
Came the amazement, that, absorb’d in it,
He saw not fiercer wonders—past the wit
Of any spirit to tell, but one of those
Who, when this planet’s
sphering time doth close
Will be its high remembrancers: who they?
The mighty ones who have made eternal day
For Greece and England. While astonishment
With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went
Into a marble gallery, passing through
A mimic temple, so complete and true
In sacred custom, that he well- nigh fear’d
To search it inwards; whence far off appear’d
Through a long pillar’d vista, a fair shrine,
And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine,
A quiver’d Dian. Stepping awfully,
The youth approach’d; oft turning his veil’d eye
Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old:
And, when more near against the marble cold
He had touch’d his forehead, he began to thread
All courts and passages, where silence dead,
Roused by his whispering footsteps, murmur’d faint:
And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint
Himself with every mystery, and awe;
Till, weary, he sat down before the maw
Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim,
To wild uncertainty and shadows grim.
There, when new wonders ceased to float before,
And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore
The journey homeward to habitual self!
A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf,
Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-brier,
Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire,
Into the bosom of a hated thing.

What misery most drowningly doth sing
In lone Endymion’s ear, now he has caught
The goal of consciousness? Ah, ’tis the thought,
The deadly feel of solitude: for lo!
He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow
Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild
In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-piled,
The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west,
Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest
Cool grass, not tasted the fresh slumberous air
But far from such companionship to wear
An unknown time, surcharged with grief, away,
Was now his lot. And must he patient stay,
Tracing fantastic figures with his spear?
“No!” exclaim’d he, “why should I tarry here?”
No! loudly echoed times innumerable.
At which he straightway started, and ’gan tell
His paces back into the temple’s chief;
Warming and glowing strong in the belief
Of help from Dian: so that when again
He caught her airy form, thus did he plain,
Moving more near the while: “O Haunter chaste
Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste,
Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen
Art thou now forested? O woodland Queen,
What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos?
Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos
Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree
Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe’er it be,
’Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste
Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste
Thy loveliness in dismal elements;
But, finding in our green earth sweet contents,
There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee
It feels Elysian, how rich to me,
An exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name!
Within my breast there lives a choking flame—
O let me cool it zephyr-boughs among!
A homeward fever parches up my tongue—
O let me slake it at the running springs!
Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings—
O let me once more hear the linnet’s note!
Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float—
O let me ’noint them with the heaven’s light:
Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white?
O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice!
Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice?
O think how this dry palate would rejoice!
If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice,
O think how I should love a bed of flowers!—
Young goddess! let me see my native bowers!
Deliver me from this rapacious deep!”

Thus ending loudly, as he would o’erleap
His destiny, alert he stood: but when
Obstinate silence came heavily again,
Feeling about for its old couch of space
And airy cradle, lowly bow’d his face,
Desponding, o’er the marble floor’s cold thrill.
But ’twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill
To its old channel, or a swollen tide
To margin sallows, where the leaves he spied,
And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns
Up heaping through the slab: refreshment drowns
Itself, and strives its own delights to hide—
Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride
In a long whispering birth enchanted grew
Before his footsteps; as when heaved anew
Old ocean rolls a lengthen’d wave to the shore,
Down whose green back the short-lived foam, all hoar,
Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence.

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense,
Upon his fairy journey on he hastes;
So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes
One moment with his hand among the sweets:
Onward he goes—he stops—his bosom beats
As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm
Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm,
This sleepy music, forced him walk tiptoe;
For it came more softly than the east could blow
Arion’s magic to the Atlantic isles;
Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles
Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the lyre
To seas Ionian and Tyrian.\
O did he ever live, that lonely man,
Who loved—and music slew not? ’Tis the pest
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest;
That things of delicate and tenderest worth
Are swallow’d all, and make a seared dearth,
By one consuming flame: it doth immerse
And suffocate true blessings in a curse.
Half- happy, by comparison of bliss,
Is miserable. ’Twas even so with this
Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian’s ear;
First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear,
Vanish’d in elemental passion.

And down some swart abysm he had gone,
Had not a heavenly guide benignant led
To where thick myrtle branches, ’gainst his head
Brushing, awaken’d: then the sounds again
Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain
Over a bower, where little space he stood;
For as the sunset peeps into a wood,
So saw he panting light, and towards it went
Through winding alleys; and lo, wonderment!
Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there,
Cupids a-slumbering on their pinions fair.

After a thousand mazes overgone,
At last, with sudden step, he came upon
A chamber, myrtle- wall’d, embower’d high,
Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,
And more of beautiful and strange beside:
For on a silken couch of rosy pride,
In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth
Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,
Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach:
And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach,
Or ripe October’s faded marigolds,
Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds—
Not hiding up an Apollonian curve
Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve
Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light;
But rather, giving them to the fill’d sight
Officiously. Sideway his face reposed
On one white arm, and tenderly unclos’d,
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth
To slumbery pout: just as the morning south
Disparts a dew- lipp’d rose. Above his head,
Four lily stalks did their white honours wed
To make a coronal; and round him grew
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,
Together intertwined and trammell’d fresh:
The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,
Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine,
Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine;
Convolvulus in streaked vases flush;
The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush;
And virgin’s bower, trailing airily;
With others of the sisterhood. Hard by,
Stood serene Cupids watching silently.
One, kneeling to a lyre, touch’d the strings,
Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;
And, ever and anon, uprose to look
At the youth’s slumber; while another look
A willow bough, distilling odorous dew,
And shook it on his hair; another flew
In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise
Rain’d violets upon his sleeping eyes.

At these enchantments, and yet many more,
The breathless Latmian wonder’d o’er and o’er;
Until impatient in embarrassment,
His forthright pass’d, and lightly treading went
To that same feather’d lyrist, who straightway,
Smiling, thus whisper’d: “Though from upper day
Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here
Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer!
For ’tis the nicest touch of human honour,
When some ethereal and high-favouring donor
Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense;
As now ’tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence
Was I in no wise startled. So recline
Upon these living flowers. Here is wine,
Alive with sparkles—never, I aver,
Since Ariadne was a vintager,
So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears,
Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears
Were high about Pomona; here is cream,
Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam;
Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm’d
For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm’d
By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums
Ready to melt between an infant’s gums:
And here is manna pick’d from Syrian trees,
In starlight, by the three Hesperides.
Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know
Of all these things around us.” He did so,
Still brooding o’er the cadence of his lyre;
And thus: “I need not any hearing tire
By telling how the sea-born goddess pined
For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind
Him all in all unto her doting self.
Who would not be so prison’d? but, fond elf,
He was content to let her amorous plea
Faint through his careless arms; content to see
An unseized heaven dying at his feet;
Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,
When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,
Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born
Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes
Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick sighs
Came vex’d and pettish through her nostrils small.
Hush! no exclaim—yet, justly might’st thou call
Curses upon his head.—I was half glad,
But my poor mistress went distract and mad,
When the boar tusk’d him: so away she flew
To Jove’s high throne, and by her plainings drew
Immortal tear-drops down the Thunderer’s beard;
Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear’d
Each summer-time to life. Lo! this is he,
That same Adonis, safe in the privacy
Of this still region all his winter-sleep.
Ay, sleep; for when our love-sick queen did weep
Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower
Heal’d up the wound, and, with a balmy power,
Medicined death to a lengthen’d drowsiness:
The which she fills with visions, and doth dress
In all this quiet luxury; and hath set
Us young immortals, without any let,
To watch his slumber through. ’Tis well-nigh pass’d,
Even
to a moment’s filling up, and fast
She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through
The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew
Embower’d sports in Cytherea’s isle.
Look, how those winged listeners all this while
Stand anxious: see! behold!”—This clamant word
Broke through the careful silence; for they heard
A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter’d
Pigeons and doves: Adonis something mutter’d,
The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh
Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradually
Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum
Of sudden voices, echoing, “Come! come!
Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walk’d
Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk’d
Full soothingly to every nested finch:
Rise, Cupids! or we’ll give the blue-bell pinch
To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!”
At this, from every side they hurried in,
Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists,
And doubling overhead their little fists
In backward yawns. But all were soon alive:
For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive
In nectar’d clouds and curls through water fair,
So from the arbour roof down swell’d an air
Odorous and enlivening; making all
To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call
For their sweet queen: when lo! the wreathed green
Disparted, and far upward could be seen
Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne,
Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn,
Spun off a drizzling dew,—which falling chill
On soft Adonis’ shoulders, made him still
Nestle and turn uneasily about.
Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretched out
And silken traces lighten’d in descent;
And soon, returning from love’s banishment,
Queen Venus leaning downward open-arm’d:
Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm’d
A tumult to his heart, and a new life
Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife,
But for her comforting! unhappy sight,
But meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can write
Of these first minutes? The unchariest muse
To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse.

O it has ruffled every spirit there,
Saving love’s self, who stands superb to share
The general gladness: awfully he stands;
A sovereign quell is in his waving hands;
No sight can bear the lightning of his bow;
His quiver is mysterious, none can know
What themselves think of it; from forth his eyes
There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes:
A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who
Look full upon it feel anon the blue
Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls.
Endymion feels it, and no more controls
The burning prayer within him; so, bent low,
He had begun a plaining of his woe.
But Venus, bending forward, said: “My child,
Favour this gentle youth; his days are wild
With love—he—but alas! too well I see
Thou know’st the deepness of his misery.
Ah, smile not so, my son: I tell thee true,
That when through heavy hours I used to rue
The endless sleep of this new-born Adon’,
This stranger aye I pitied. For upon
A dreary morning once I fled away
Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray
For this my love: for vexing Mars had teased
Me even to tears: thence, when a little eased,
Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood,
I saw this youth as he despairing stood:
Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind:
Those same full fringed lids a constant blind
Over his sullen eyes: I saw him throw
Himself on wither’d leaves, even as though
Death had come sudden; for no jot he moved,
Yet mutter’d wildly. I could hear he loved
Some fair immortal, and that his embrace
Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace
Of this in heaven: I have mark’d each cheek,
And find it is the vainest thing to seek;
And that of all things ’tis kept secretest.
Endymion! one day thou wilt be blest:
So still obey the guiding hand that fends
Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends.
’Tis a concealment needful in extreme;
And if I guess’d not so, the sunny beam
Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu!
Here must we leave thee.”—At these words up flew
The impatient doves, up rose the floating car,
Up went the hum celestial. High afar
The Latmian saw them minish into nought;
And, when all were clear vanish’d, still he caught
A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow.
When all was darken’d, with ætnean throe
The earth closed—gave a solitary moan—
And left him once again in twilight lone.

He did not rave, he did not stare aghast,
For all those visions were o’ergone, and past,
And he in loneliness: he felt assured
Of happy times, when all he had endured
Would seem a feather to the mighty prize.
So, with unusual gladness, on he hies
Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore,
Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor,
Black polish’d porticoes of awful shade,
And, at the last, a diamond balustrade,
Leading afar past wild magnificence,
Spiral through ruggedest loop-holes, and thence
Stretching across a void, then guiding o’er
Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar,
Streams subterranean tease their granite beds;
Then heighten’d just above the silvery heads
Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash
The waters with his spear; but at the splash,
Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose
Sudden a poplar’s height, and ’gan to inclose
His diamond path with fretwork streaming round
Alike, and dazzling cool, and with a sound,
Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells
Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells
On this delight; for, every minute’s space,
The streams with changed magic interlace:
Sometimes like delicatest
lattices,
Cover’d with crystal vines; then weeping trees,
Moving about as in a gentle wind,
Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined,
Pour’d into shapes of curtain’d canopies,
Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries
Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair.
Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare;
And then the water, into stubborn streams
Collecting, mimick’d the wrought oaken beams,
Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof,
Of those dusk places in times far aloof
Cathedrals call’d. He bade a loath farewell
To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and dell,
And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes,
Half seen through deepest gloom, and grizly gapes,
Blackening on every side, and overhead
A vaulted dome like heaven’s far bespread
With starlight gems: ay, all so huge and strange,
The solitary felt a hurried change
Working within him into something dreary,—
Vex’d like a morning eagle, lost and weary,
And purblind amid foggy midnight wolds.
But he revives at once: for who beholds
New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough?
Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below,
Came mother Cybele! alone—alone—
In sombre chariot; dark foldings thrown
About her majesty, and front death-pale,
With turrets crown’d. Four maned lions hale
The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed maws,
Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws
Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails
Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails
This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away
In another gloomy arch.

Wherefore delay,
Young traveller, in such a mournful place?
Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace
The diamond path? And does it indeed end
Abrupt in middle air? Yet earthward bend
Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne
Call ardently! He was indeed wayworn;
Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost;
To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost
Towards him a large eagle, ’twixt whose wings,
Without one impious word, himself he flings,
Committed to the darkness and the gloom:
Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom,
Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell
Through unknown things; till exhaled asphodel,
And rose, with spicy fannings interbreathed,
Came swelling forth where little caves were wreathed
So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem’d
Large honeycombs of green, and freshly teem’d
With airs delicious. In the greenest nook
The eagle landed him, and farewell took.

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown
With golden moss. His every sense had grown
Ethereal for pleasure; ’bove his head
Flew a delight half graspable; his tread
Was Hesperean; to his capable ears
Silence was music from the holy spheres;
A dewy luxury was in his eyes;
The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs
And stirr’d them faintly. Verdant cave and cell
He wander’d through, oft wondering at such swell
Of sudden exaltation: but, “Alas!”
Said he, “will all this gush of feeling pass
Away in solitude? And must they wane,
Like melodies upon a sandy plain,
Without an echo? Then shall I be left
So sad, so melancholy, so bereft!
Yet still I feel immortal! O my love,
My breath of life, where art thou? High above,
Dancing before the morning gates of heaven?
Or keeping watch among those starry seven,
Old Atlas’ children? Art a maid of the waters,
One of shell-winding Triton’s bright-hair’d daughters?
Or art, impossible! a nymph of Dian’s,
Weaving a coronal of tender scions
For very idleness? Where’er thou art,
Methinks it now is at my will to start
Into thine arms; to scare Aurora’s train,
And snatch thee from the morning; o’er the main
To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off
From thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff
Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee ’mid fresh leaves.
No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives
Its powerless self: I know this cannot be.
O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee
To her entrancements: hither sleep awhile!
Hither, most gentle sleep! and soothing foil
For some few hours the coming solitude.”

Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued
With power to dream deliciously; so wound
Through a dim passage, searching till he found
The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where
He threw himself, and just into the air
Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss!
A naked waist: “Fair Cupid, whence is this?”
A well-known voice sigh’d, “Sweetest, here am I!”
At which soft ravishment, with doting cry
They trembled to each other.—Helicon!
O fountain’d hill! Old Homer’s Helicon!
That thou would’st spout a little streamlet o’er
These sorry pages; then the verse would soar
And sing above this gentle pair, like lark
Over his nested young: but all is dark
Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount
Exhales in mists to heaven. Ay, the count
Of mighty Poets is made up; the scroll
Is folded by the Muses; the bright roll
Is in Apollo’s hand: our dazed eyes
Have seen a new tinge in the western skies:
The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet,
Although the sun of poesy is set,
These lovers did embrace, and we must weep
That there is no old power left to steep
A quill immortal in their joyous tears.
Long time in silence did their anxious fears
Question that thus it was; long time they lay
Fondling and kissing every doubt away;
Long time ere soft caressing
sobs began
To mellow into words, and then there ran
Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips.
“O known Unknown! from whom my being sips
Such darling essence, wherefore may I not
Be ever in these arms? in this sweet spot
Pillow my chin for ever? ever press
These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess?
Why not for ever and for ever feel
That breath about my eyes? Ah, thou wilt steal
Away from me again, indeed, indeed—
Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed
My lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair!
Is—is it to be so? No! Who will dare
To pluck thee from me? And, of thine own will,
Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still
Let me entwine thee surer, surer—now
How can we part? Elysium! Who art thou?
Who, that thou canst not be for ever here,
Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere?
Enchantress! tell me by this soft embrace,
By the most soft complexion of thy face,
Those lips, O slippery blisses! twinkling eyes,
And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties—
These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine,
The passion”—“O loved Ida the divine!
Endymion! dearest! Ah, unhappy me!
His soul will ’scape us—O felicity!
How he does love me! His poor temples beat
To the very tune of love—how sweet, sweet, sweet!
Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die;
Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by
In tranced dulness; speak, and let that spell
Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell
Its heavy pressure, and will press at least
My lips to thine, that they may richly feast
Until we taste the life of love again.
What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! O pain!
I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive;
And so long absence from thee doth bereave
My soul of any rest: yet must I hence:
Yet, can I not to starry eminence
Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own
Myself to thee. Ah, dearest! do not groan,
Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy,
And I must blush in heaven. O that I
Had done it already! that the dreadful smiles
At my lost brightness, my impassion’d wiles,
Had waned from Olympus’ solemn height,
And from all serious Gods; that our delight
Was quite forgotten, save of us alone!
And wherefore so ashamed? ’Tis but to atone
For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes:
Yet must I be a coward! Horror rushes
Too palpable before me—the sad look
Of Jove—Minerva’s start—no bosom shook
With awe of purity—no Cupid pinion
In reverence veil’d—my crystalline dominion
Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity!
But what is this to love? Oh! I could fly
With thee into the ken of heavenly powers,
So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours,
Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once
That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce—
Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown—
Oh! I do think that I have been alone
In chastity! yes, Pallas has been sighing,
While every eve saw me my hair uptying
With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love!
I was as vague as solitary dove,
Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss—
Ay, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss,
An immortality of passion’s thine:
Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine
Of heaven ambrosial; and we will shade
Ourselves whole summers by a river glade;
And I will tell thee stories of the sky,
And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy.
My happy love will overwing all bounds!
O let me melt into thee! let the sounds
Of our close voices marry at their birth;
Let us entwine hoveringly! O dearth
Of human words! roughness of mortal speech
Lispings empyrean will I sometimes teach
Thine honey’d tongue—lute-breathings which I gasp
To have thee understand, now while I clasp
Thee thus, and weep for fondness—I am pain’d,
Endymion: woe! woe! is grief contain’d
In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life?”—
Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife
Melted into a languor. He return’d
Entranced vows and tears.

Залудео ме Хиперион Very Happy
Sačuvana



Доме доме, међу звездама,
где светови плешу, слободни.
И.А.
Кули
Ghostwheel
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« Odgovor #11 poslato: 25.01.2007. 21:00:54 »

Jos kad bi bilo prevedeno, mozda bih i pokusao da je razumem i protumacim, ovako samo letimicno citanje.
Sačuvana

To be happy in this world, first you
need a cell phone and
then you need an airplane.
Then you're truly wireless.
-Honey-
Registrovani

stažista


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« Odgovor #12 poslato: 25.01.2007. 21:11:54 »

Pismo majci

Jesi l živa, staričice moja?
Sin tvoj živi i pozdrav ti šalje.
Nek uvečer nad kolibom tvojom
Ona čudna svjetlost sja i dalje.
Pišu mi da viđaju te često
zbog mene veoma zabrinutu
i da ideš svaki čas na cestu
u svom trošnom starinskom kaputu.
U sutonu plavom da te često
uvijek isto priviđenje muči:
kako su u krčmi finski nož
u srce mi zaboli u tuči.
Nemaj straha! Umiri se, draga!
Od utvare to ti srce zebe.
Tako ipak propio se nisam
da bih umro ne vidjevši tebe.
Kao nekad, i sada sam nježan,
i srce mi živi samo snom,
da što prije pobjegnem od jada
i vratim se u naš niski dom
Vratit ću se kad u našem vrtu
            rašire se grane pune cvijeta.
             Samo nemoj da u ranu zoru
               budiš me ko prije osam ljeta.
                  Nemoj budit odsanjane snove,
                    nek miruje ono čega ne bi:
                       odveć rano zamoren životom,
                         samo čemer osjećam u sebi.
                            I ne uči da se molim. Pusti!
                              Nema više vraćanja ka starom.
                                 Ti jedina utjeha si moja,
                                    svjetlo što mi sija istim žarom.
Umiri se! Nemoj da te često
viđaju onako zabrinutu,
i ne idi svaki čas na cestu
u svom trošnom starinskom kaputu.


Sergej Jesenjin
Sačuvana

Welcome to USL...
Miki 13991
Vitez Gondora

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« Odgovor #13 poslato: 25.01.2007. 21:17:43 »

Citat: "Кули"
Jos kad bi bilo prevedeno, mozda bih i pokusao da je razumem i protumacim, ovako samo letimicno citanje.


Убих се тражећи превод  Laughing  Laughing  Laughing
Sačuvana



Доме доме, међу звездама,
где светови плешу, слободни.
И.А.
Кули
Ghostwheel
predsednik


Poruke: 2.091
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« Odgovor #14 poslato: 26.01.2007. 10:19:13 »

Citat: "Miki 13991"
Citat: "Кули"
Jos kad bi bilo prevedeno, mozda bih i pokusao da je razumem i protumacim, ovako samo letimicno citanje.


Убих се тражећи превод  Laughing  Laughing  Laughing


Ne trazis dobro, potrudi se jos malo.
Sačuvana

To be happy in this world, first you
need a cell phone and
then you need an airplane.
Then you're truly wireless.
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