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قراءة كتاب Colors of Life: Poems and Songs and Sonnets
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 8
lie sadly still beside the stream,
Sobbing in torture of that vivid fire;
The same low sky would weave its fading blue,
The river still exhale its misty rain,
The willow trail its waving over you,
Your longing only quickened into pain.
Bed your desire among the pressing grasses;
Lonely lie, and let your thirsting breasts
Lie on you, lonely, till the fever passes,
Till the undulation of your longing rests.
IN MY ROOM
| In this high room, my room of quiet space, Sun-yellow softened for my happiness, I learn of you, Wang Wei, and of your loves; Your rhythmic fisher sweet with solitude Beneath a willow by the river stream; Your agéd plum tree bearing lonely bloom Beside the torrent's thunder; misty buds Among your saplings; delicate-leaved bamboo. My room is sweet because of you, Wang Wei, Your tranquil and creative-fingered love So many mounds of mournful years ago In that cool valley where the colors lived. My ceiling slopes a little like far mountains. Your delicate-leaved bamboo can flourish here. |
Wang Wei was a great Chinese painter and poet, of the 8th century.
HOURS
| Hours when I love you, are like tranquil pools, The liquid jewels of the forest, where The hunted runner dips his hand, and cools His fevered ankles, and the ferny air Comes blowing softly on his heaving breast, Hinting the sacred mystery of rest. |
FIRE AND WATER
| Flame-Heart, take back your love. Swift, sure And poignant as the dagger to the mark, Your will is burning ever; it is pure. Mine is vague water welling through the dark, Holding all substances—except the spark. Picture the pleasure of the meadow stream When some clear striding naked-footed girl Cuts swift and straightly as a gleam Across its bosom ambling and aswirl With mooning eddies and soft lips acurl; Such was our meeting—fatefully so brief. I have no purpose and no power to clutch. Gleam onward, maiden, to your goal of grief; And I more sadly flow, remembering much, Yet doomed to take the form of all I touch. |
YOU MAKE NO ANSWER
| You make no answer. You have stolen away Deliberately in that twilight sorrow Where the dark flame that is your being shines So well. Mysterious and deeply tender In your motion you have softly left me, And the little path along the house is still. And I, a child forsaken of its mother, I, a pilgrim leaning for a friend, Grow faint, and tell myself in terror that My love reborn and burning shall yet bring you— More than friend and slender-bodied mother— O sweet-passioned spirit, shining home! |
OUT OF A DARK NIGHT
| Death is more tranquil than the life of love, More calm, more sure, and more unanguished. O the path among the trees is far more tranquil to the dead Than to these anxious hearts, uptroubled from their beds, Who pace in pallid darkness on the leaves, For no good reason—for no reason But because their limbs will not lie still upon the sheet. Their limbs will not lie still. O how I pity them. Sad hearts—their marrow is a-quiver, And they can not lie them down in tranquil sadness like the dead. |
A MORNING
| Again this morning the bold autumn, Spreading through the woods her sacred fire, Brings the rich color of your presence Warmly luminous to my desire— Brings to my heart the dear wild worship, High and wayward as the windy air, And to my pulse the hot sweet passion Burning crimson like a poison there. |
ANNIVERSARY
| The flowers we planted in the tender spring, And through the summer watched their blossoming, Died with our love in autumn's thoughtful weather, Died and dropped downward altogether. Today in April in the vivid grass They flash again their laughter, pink and yellow, They wake before the frosty sunbeams pass, Gay bold to leave their chilly pillow. But love sleeps longer in his wintry bed, He sleeps as though the lifting light were dead, And spring poured not her colors on the meadow, He sleeps in his cold sober shadow. |
AUTUMN LIGHT
| So bright and soft is the sweet air of morning, And so tenderly the light descends, And blesses with its gentle-falling fingers All the leaves unto the valley's ends— It brings them all to being when it touches With its paleness every glowing vein; The wild and flaming hollows of the forest Kindle all their crimson in its rain; And every curve receives its share of morning, Every little shadow softly grows, And motion finds a melody more tender That like a phantom through the branches goes— So bright and soft and tranquil-rendering, And quiet in its giving, as though love, The morning dream of life, were born of longing, And really poured its being from above. |
A MODERN MESSIAH
| Scarred with sensuality and pain And weary labor in a mind not hard Enough to think, a heart too always tender, Sits the Christ of failure with his lovers. They are wiser than his parables, But he more potent, for he has the gift Of hopelessness, and want of faith, and love. |
IN A RED CROSS HOSPITAL
| Today I saw a face—it was a beak, That peered, with pale round yellow vapid eyes, Above the bloody muck that had been lips And teeth and chin. A plodding doctor poured Some water through a rubber down a hole He made in that black bag of horny |