Kastanienmond (German Edition)

Women and Theological Writing During the Reformation
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And who is rude and unfair to her? No thx! There are no discussion topics on this book yet. About Christa Canetta. Christa Canetta. Christa Canetta is the pen-name of author Christa Kanitz. Books by Christa Canetta.

No trivia or quizzes yet. Welcome back. Ich will mich zum deutschen Professor begeben. Comment [Sprachreinhaltung] Gott Dank! Die schmieden, uns gar unbequem, Ein neues Kontinentalsystem. Nun sind wir endlich froh: Sie pocht von Messe zu Messe In dulci jubilo.

Das ist eher als eine Art Inhaltsverzeichnis gedacht. The fact to which we have got to cling, as to a lifebelt, is that it is possible to be a normal decent person and yet be fully alive. Allen Ginsberg — Comment Earthly If I'd been destined at birth To lie in the lap of the gods, I'd have been reared by a heavenly wet-nurse On the holy milk of the clouds. I'd be god of a stream or a garden, Keeping watch over graves or the corn, June 12] , Elisavetgrad — May 27, , Moscow was a prominent Soviet and Russian poet and translator.

He is considered one of the great 20th century Russian poets. He was also the father of influential film director Andrei Tarkovsky. Comment The Horse Where in this wide world can man find nobility without pride, Friendship without envy, Or beauty without vanity? Ronald Duncan - writer, poet and playwright, now best known for preparing the libretto for Benjamin Britten's opera The Rape of Lucretia, first performed in He composed The Horse in Wenn Gefahr besteht, dass sich Dinge wandeln, wenn verboten wird, mit dem Boden zu handeln — dann herrscht Unordnung. Nur nicht schrein. Mit der Zeit wird das schon.

Alles bringt euch die Evolution. So hats euer Volksvertreter entdeckt. Seid ihr bis dahin alle verreckt? Theobald Tiger Ich finde es erschreckend, wie aktuell Kurt Tucholsky auch heute noch ist. Das fragst Du das personifizierte Chaos? In Hoch-Zeiten haben wir es manchmal sogar geschafft, so eine Art Frage- und Antwortspiel zu kreieren. Und da ist es dann vollkommen wurscht, ob es ein Zitat schon mal gab oder nicht.

Ganz ohne Dopplung ging das auch nicht, aber das zeigt ja nur, wir bekannt und beliebt einige Gedichte sind. Comment Chaostranslater, I assume you might like this one as well, then: related discussion: The poetry corner - Comment The poetry corner Content Anonymous — anonymous Runengedicht um n. Williams: The Term. Williams: Winter Trees. Auden: In Memory of Sigmund Freud. Translation Seashore Theodor Storm: Meeresstrand. Whitman: Out of the Rolling Ocean.

King Riley B. Der Andere Bist du schon auf der Sonne gewesen? Translation Taliesin 6. My Captain! Im eigenen Interesse hat sie sich uns gesellt. Wir schweigen oder schreiben, ob jener auch zerspringt — wenn uns nur unser Treiben was bringt. Die Welt, soweit sie lebend, singt unsere Melodie. Wir bringen, dringen, schlingen uns in das Leben ein. Wo wir den Wert bezwingen, erschaffen wir den Schein. Karl Kraus , Comment Wie Udo einst sang: Find' ich gut!

I try to wear this weight lightly. But the weight of the unknown buries me. Ich will dies leicht nehmen. Jayanta Mahapatra Jayanta Mahapatra b. Comment A Bevor du B sagst, verweile doch, horch, bedenk, was du gesagt hast. Ein Vokal, der wenig bedeutet, I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below: Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go! I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall, I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.

Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here. Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done; Here where my dearest dead are laid--my wife--my wife and son; Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love, Have rooted me in British soil.

Ah, how can I remove? For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields surffice. What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies, Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze-- The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days? You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine an olive lean Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on, Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!

You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines. You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but--will you e'er forget The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet? Let me work here for Britain's sake--at any task you will-- A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.

Some Western camp I know the Pict or granite Border keep, Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep. Legate, I come to you in tears--My cohort ordered home! I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome? Here is my heart, my soul, my mind--the only life I know. I cannot leave it all behind. Rudyard Kipling , Un der rebe lernt klejne kinderlech dem alef-bejs. Set sche kinderlech, gedenkt sche, tajere, wos ir lernet do.

Sogt sche noch a mol un take noch a mol: "Komets-alef: o! Glicklech is der Jid, wos kennt die tojre un dos alef-bejs. Lernet, kinderlech, hot nit mojre. Jeder onhejb is schwer. Glicklech is der Jid vos lernt die tojre, Wos darfn mir noch mer? Az ir werd, kinderlech, elter wern, Werd ir alejn farschtejn, wiefil in di ojsjes liegen trern Un wiefil gewejn.

Lernet, kinderlech, mit grojs chejschick, Asoj sog ich ajch on. Wer s'vet besser vun ajch kennen ivri, Der bakumt a fon. Hier ist ein Wiegenlied vom gleichen Autor mit demselben Titel: Oyfn Pripetshik Oyfn pripetshik brent a fayeri, Un in shtub iz heys; Un der rebbe lernt kleyne kinderlech dem alefbeyz; Un der rebbe lernt kleyne kinderlech dem alef-beyz. Zet zhe, kinderlech, gedenkt zhe tayere, vos ir lernt do; Zogt zhe noch a mol un take noch a mol: Komets alef o.

See now, little ones, listen children, don't forget it, please. Say it once for me and say it once again, All your ABCs. Ja, heiter wird auf ihn der Tag; Drum braus' er, was er brausen mag!

The poetry corner - Vol. 3

Er selbst und noch ein Wisperwind: - Ein neuer Tag der Welt beginnt! Hab' Dank, du frisch und freudig Wehn! Ja, Zehn und rings der Himmel rein! Jetzt, nein ich, wird es Sechse sein! Ferdinand Freiligrath Stevens says better to peddle Pineapples than write love poems. She currently lives in Chicago where she serves on the creative writing faculty at the University of Chicago. Comment In A Gondola The moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide open I burst.

The bee's kiss, now! Kiss me as if you enter'd gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow. Comment Lampe und Spiegel "Sie faule, verbummelte Schlampe! Der Spiegel in seiner Erbitterung bekam einen ganz gewaltigen Sprung.

Der zornigen Lampe verging die Puste: Sie fauchte, rauchte, schwelte und ruste. Joachim Ringelnatz - Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff. Comment Summer Sun Great is the sun, and wide he goes Through empty heaven with repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays. Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlour cool, Yet he will find a chink or two To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad He, through the keyhole, maketh glad; And through the broken edge of tiles Into the laddered hay-loft smiles. Meantime his golden face around He bares to all the garden ground, And sheds a warm and glittering look Among the ivy's inmost nook. Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The gardener of the World, he goes. Robert Louis Stevenson — In , Stevenson entered Edinburgh University as a science student, where it was tacitly understood that he would follow his father's footsteps and become a civil engineer.

Robert, however, had much more of a romantic nature at heart and while obstentiously working for a science degree, he spent much of his time studying French Literature, Scottish history, and the works of Darwin and Spencer. When he confided to his father that he did not want to become an engineer and instead wished to pursue writing, his father was naturally upset. From: poemhunter. Comment Acropolis The soft quem quam will be Scops the Owl conjugation of nouns, a line of enquiry, powdery stubble of the socratic prison laurels crack like parchments in the wind. Ruf' wieder sanft, und noch einmal.

Comment a pretty a day a pretty a day and every fades is here and away but born are maids to flower an hour in all,all o yes to flower until so blithe a doer a wooer some limber and lithe some very fine mower a tall;tall. Like most of my schoolfellows I was an impassioned nutter. For this pleasure, the vale of Esthwaite, abounding in coppice-wood, furnished a very wide range, These verses arose out of the remembrance of feelings I had often had when a boy, and particularly in the extensive woods that still stretch from the side of Esthwaite Lake towards Graythwaite, the seat of the ancient family of Sandys.

O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene! Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And--with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep-- I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.

Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky-- Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods. William Wordsworth. Anno salutis Hans Sachs - Comment Attention please!

Attention please! Don't dare to talk! Don't dare to sneeze! Don't doze or daydream! Stay awake! Your health, your very life's at stake! Ho—ho, you say, they can't mean me. Ha—ha, we answer, wait and see.


Did any of you ever meet A child called Goldie Pinklesweet? Who on her seventh birthday went To stay with Granny down in Kent. Unbedingt weiterlesen! Roald Dahl - Lasst unsre Scham im Dunkel sich verstecken. Comment Danke, Chaostranslater. Diese Version 37 kannte ich noch nicht. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Gottfried Benn. She was born in Bucovina, and lived in U. A, Romania, and Germany. I'm curious about what comes next. One Art The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master.

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Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

She is considered one of the most important and distinguished American poets of the 20th century. Ich, ein solcher Narr, ich liebe wieder ohne Gegenliebe! Sonne, Mond un Sterne lachen, und ich lache mit - und sterbe. Comment Das Gedicht findet sich am Ende eines ansonsten in lateinischer Sprache geschriebenen Briefes einer hochgestellten Dame an ihren Lehrer einen Geistlichen ;- Thema des Briefes war die "amicitia", also rein platonisch versteht sich Comment My teacher wasn't half as nice as yours seems to be 'My teacher wasn't half as nice as yours seems to be.

His name was Mister Unsworth and he taught us history. And when you didn't know a date he'd get you by the ear And start to twist while you sat there quite paralysed with fear. Roald Dahl — Translation Lied. Translation Night Thoughts Goethe: Nachtgedanken. Translation Eine rote, rote Rose R. Burns: A Red, Red Rose. Translation Moonlit Night Eichendorff: Mondnacht.

Beckett: que ferais-je sans ce monde. Text um Der Mann mit der blauen Gitarre W. Stevens: The Man with the Blue Guitar.

Translation Landschaft mit dem Sturz des Ikarus W. Translation Gib mir einen Arzt W. Auden: Give Me A Doctor. Translation mein geist ist E. Cummings: my mind is. Translation spare time Enzensberger: freizeit. Translation Delos Lawrence Durrell: Delos. Auden: The Unknown Citizen. Longfellow: Children. Translation Der Giftbaum W. Blake: A Poison Tree. Hopkins: Pied Beauty. Translation Sonett Shakespeare. Sechstes Kapitel. Aus: Kritik des Herzens. Williams: Perfection. Translation Ralph W. Extraction Sonett Shakespeare. Wordsworth: Daffodils. Translation Karl Kraus Sonett 18 Shakespeare.

Magee Jr. Poe: The Raven. Translation Charles M. El grito. Monolog Aus: Polenlieder. Act 5 Scene 5. Translation Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi Who looks out with my eyes? From: The Tragedy of King Lear. Cummings: i carry your heart with me. Comment Canto His many avowals of love, moreover, are constantly refuted by his harsh attacks on historical figures or groups in lines that convey a rage and contempt more deeply felt than professed love. In the very Canto 91 in which love, identified with light and creation, is the mover and object of the poet, democracies, Jews, and others of whom Pound disapproves are equated with filth.

Lillian Feder. Pound and Ovid. In: George Bornstein Ed. Ezra Pound among the poets. University of Chicago Press; Comment That's really nice. Welcome here, Mrs. Maybe you will like this one too. You and I I explain quietly. You hear me shouting. You try a new tack. I feel old wounds reopen. You see both sides. I see your blinkers. I am placatory. You sense a new selfishness. I am a dove. You recognize the hawk. You offer an olive branch. I feel the thorns. You bleed. I see crocodile tears. I withdraw. You reel from the impact. He presents the BBC Radio 4 programme Poetry Please and records voice-overs for commercials, as well as performing his own poetry regularly.

I'm sorry I must correct a typo in the second verse of: Canto Seit ihrem I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described,--"He looks up--the clouds are split," etc. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split Asunder,--and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.

There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not! At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

Comment I Like it! Here another one of my favourites: Twelve songs: IX Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week, my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moob and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good. Comment Eins nur ist, was der Mensch zu allen Zeiten gesucht hat Mai Novalis. Viele Leser kennen sie nicht. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Sie entspricht der Persephone in der griechischen Mythologie. Comment Growing Old What is it to grow old?

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Kastanienmond (German Edition) - Kindle edition by Christa Canetta. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features. Kastanienmond by Christa Canetta, , available at Book Depository with free delivery Publication date 01 Sep ; Publisher Langen - Mueller Verlag; Language German; ISBN10 ; ISBN13

Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone. Is it to feel our strength - Not our bloom only, but our strength -decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more weakly strung? Yes, this, and more! It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young. It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain.

It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion -none. It is -last stage of all - When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man. Matthew Arnold. Bei Hitze ein Bier sehn, das man nicht bezahlen kann. Gottfried Benn — Comment Mrs. Fegt weg den Wald und des Meeres Flut, Nie wird es sein, so wie es war.

Nie wieder gut. While attempting to cross over Helvellyn to Grasmere he slipped from a steep part of the rock where the ice was not thawed, and perished. His body was discovered as is told in this poem. Walter Scott heard of the accident, and both he and I, without either of us knowing that the other had taken up the subject, each wrote a poem in admiration of the dog's fidelity.

His contains a most beautiful stanza "How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber, When the wind waved his garment how oft didst thou start. The Dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while The Shepherd stood; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled Discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history. From those abrupt and perilous rocks The Man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the Shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the Traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This Dog, had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated Traveller died, The Dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate!

Comment Ich kann mich dunkel an den Film erinnern, aber nicht an die Grabrede Hat mich allerdings an ein anders Gedicht denken lassen, dass mal in einem Film vorkam. Der Film war doof, aber das Gedicht war klasse. She being Brand -new; and you know consequently a little stiff i was careful of her and having thoroughly oiled the universal joint tested my gas felt of her radiator made sure her springs were O. Still- ;stand E. Christian Morgenstern — Comment Da kann ich nur sagen zwei Dumme ein Gedanke Kennst du das hier schon? Vorm Fliegelflagel sieh dich vor, dem mampfen Schnatterrind!

In sich gekeimt, so stand er hier: Da kam verschnoff der Zipferlak Mit Flammenlefze angewacktt Und gurgt in seiner Gier. Mit eins! Die biffe Klinge ritscheropf! Trennt er vom Hals den toten Kopf, Und wiehernd sprengt er heim. Komm an mein Herz, aromer Sohn! O blumer Tag! O schlusse Fron! Lewis Carroll. Das Original hab ich nicht parat Comment The Morning-Watch O joys! All the long hours Of night, and rest, Through the still shrouds Of sleep, and clouds, This dew fell on my breast; Oh, how it bloods And spirits all my earth!

In what rings And hymning circulations the quick world Awakes and sings; The rising winds And falling springs, Birds, beasts, all things Adore him in their kinds. O let me climb When I lie down! The pious soul by night Is like a clouded star whose beams, though said To shed their light Under some cloud, Yet are above, And shine and move Beyond that misty shroud. Comment A Summer Morning Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.

I stand with thee outside the door, The air not yet is close with heat, And far across the yellowing wheat The waves are breaking on the shore. A lovely day! Yet many such, Each like to each, this month have passed, And none did so supremely shine. One thing they lacked: the perfect touch Of thee — and thou art come at last, And half this loveliness is thine. In concluding my notices of this class of poems it may be as well to observe that among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets" are a few alluding to morning impressions which might be read with mutual benefit in connection with these "Evening Voluntaries.

Time was when field and watery cove With modulated echoes rang, While choirs of fervent Angels sang Their vespers in the grove; Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both. II No sound is uttered,--but a deep And solemn harmony pervades The hollow vale from steep to steep, And penetrates the glades. Far-distant images draw nigh, Called forth by wondrous potency Of beamy radiance, that imbues, Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues! In vision exquisitely clear, Herds range along the mountain side; And glistening antlers are descried; And gilded flocks appear.

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe That this magnificence is wholly thine! III And, if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail, Yon hazy ridges to their eyes Present a glorious scale, Climbing suffused with sunny air, To stop--no record hath told where!

And tempting Fancy to ascend, And with immortal Spirits blend! Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, And see to what fair countries ye are bound! And if some traveller, weary of his road, Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, Ye Genii! IV Such hues from their celestial Urn Were wont to stream before mine eye, Where'er it wandered in the morn Of blissful infancy.

This glimpse of glory, why renewed? Nay, rather speak with gratitude; For, if a vestige of those gleams Survived, 'twas only in my dreams. Dread Power! Alstone, now in America. It is pleasant to make this public acknowledgment to a man of genius, whom I have the honour to rank among my friends.

Allusions to the Ode, entitled "Intimations of Immortality," pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem. Ich bin wirklich gespannt auf mehr von William Wordsworth zum Morgen- und Abendthema. August in Montagnola, Schweiz. EARTH has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her sway Like influence never may my soul reject If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked With glorious forms in numberless array, To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose Gleams from a world in which the saints repose.

Thanks; thou hast snapped a fireside Prisoner's chain, Exulting Warbler! Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! Comment Proletarian Poet A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing the sidewalk Her shoe in her hand.

It seems that death has found the portals it will enter by: my lungs, pathetic oblong ghosts, one paler than the other on the doctor's viewing screen. Looking up "pneumonia," I learn it can, like an erratic dog, turn mean and snap life short for someone under two or "very old over November Ein Weckruf? Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt? Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand? How shall I lift it gently up over you on to other things? I would so very much like to tuck it away among long lost objects in the dark.

Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie.