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Maria Stuart: Ein Opfer des politischen Machtstreben Elisabeth's (German zum truren im Werk des Tristan von Gottfried von Straßburg (German Edition).
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- Cartas por la vida en la Tierra
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The work was published before 1 August , and copyright expired 50 years after publication, i. Please refer to Comment My Fancy I painted her a gushing thing, With years about a score; I little thought to find they were A least a dozen more; My fancy gave her eyes of blue, A curly auburn head: I came to find the blue a green, The auburn turned to red.
She boxed my ears this morning, They tingled very much; I own that I could wish her A somewhat lighter touch; And if you ask me how Her charms might be improved, I would not have them added to, But just a few removed! She has the bear's ethereal grace, The bland hyaena's laugh, The footstep of the elephant, The neck of a giraffe; I love her still, believe me, Though my heart its passion hides; "She's all my fancy painted her," But oh!
Comment The Idler An idle lingerer on the wayside's road, He gathers up his work and yawns away; A little longer, ere the tiresome load Shall be reduced to ashes or to clay.
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No matter if the world has marched along, And scorned his slowness as it quickly passed; No matter, if amid the busy throng, He greets some face, infantile at the last. Well, there is but one, And if it is a mission he knows it, nay, To be a happy idler, to lounge and sun, And dreaming, pass his long-drawn days away. So dreams he on, his happy life to pass Content, without ambitions painful sighs, Until the sands run down into the glass; He smiles—content—unmoved and dies. And yet, with all the pity that you feel For this poor mothling of that flame, the world; Are you the better for your desperate deal, When you, like him, into infinitude are hurled?
Among the first generation born free in the South after the Civil War, she was one of the prominent African Americans involved in the artistic flourishing of the Harlem Renaissance.
Der Himmel ist einsam und ungeheuer. Ein Schweigen in schwarzen Wipfeln wohnt. Bisweilen schnellt sehr fern ein Schlitten Und langsam steigt der graue Mond. Das Rohr bebt gelb und aufgeschossen. Frost, Rauch, ein Schritt im leeren Hain. Comment Zu 54 Cino.
Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet! Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
Comment The Skylark The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside The battered road; and spreading far and wide Above the russet clods, the corn is seen Sprouting its spiry points of tender green, Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake, Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break. Opening their golden caskets to the sun, The buttercups make schoolboys eager run, To see who shall be first to pluck the prize— Up from their hurry, see, the skylark flies, And o'er her half-formed nest, with happy wings Winnows the air, till in the cloud she sings, Then hangs a dust-spot in the sunny skies, And drops, and drops, till in her nest she lies, Which they unheeded passed—not dreaming then That birds which flew so high would drop agen To nests upon the ground, which anything May come at to destroy.
Had they the wing Like such a bird, themselves would be too proud, And build on nothing but a passing cloud! As free from danger as the heavens are free From pain and toil, there would they build and be, And sail about the world to scenes unheard Of and unseen—Oh, were they but a bird! So think they, while they listen to its song, And smile and fancy and so pass along; While its low nest, moist with the dews of morn, Lies safely, with the leveret, in the corn. Ein schwarzer Kater schleicht herzu, Die Krallen scharf, die Augen gluh. Der Vogel scheint mir, hat Humor.
Comment Hitchhiker 'Tryna get to sunny Californy' -. Comment Next a metaphorical poem written in blank verse, published in , thus in the public domain. Mending Wall Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
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The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbours. Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.
I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbours. Comment What Is Life? And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run, A mist retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream. A minute's pause, a moment's thought. A bubble on the stream, That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought. And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn, That of its charms divests the dewy lawn, And robs each flow'ret of its gem—and dies; A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn, Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.
And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound? That dark mysterious name of horrid sound? A long and lingering sleep the weary crave. Where can its happiness abound? Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave. Then what is Life? When stripped of its disguise, A thing to be desired it cannot be; Since everything that meets our foolish eyes Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. Comment Moon Over Bourbon Street There's a moon over Bourbon Street tonight I see faces as they pass beneath the pale lamplight I've no choice but to follow that call The bright lights, the people, and the moon and all.
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Comment Consider Me Gone. Roses have thorns Shining water's mud And cancer lurks deep In the sweetest bud. Etwa um diese Zeit schrieb er das folgende, recht eindringliche Kurzgedicht: Dust of Snow http: Comment Hunters in the Snow The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background Comment The Snowdrop Already the Snowdrop dares appear, The first pale blossom of th' unripen'd year; As Flora's breath, by some transforming power, Had chang'd an icicle into a flower, Its name and hue the scentless plant retains, And winter lingers in its icy veins. Discussion has been deleted.
Cartas por la vida en la Tierra
Comment The Smile There is a smile of love, And there is a smile of deceit, And there is a smile of smiles In which these two smiles meet; And there is a frown of hate, And there is a frown of disdain, And there is a frown of frowns Which you strive to forget in vain, For it sticks in the heart's deep core, And it sticks in the deep back bone, And no smile that ever was smil'd, But only one smile alone That betwixt the cradle and grave It only once smil'd can be, But when it once is smil'd, There's an end to all misery.
Es saust der Stock, es schwirrt die Rute. Du darfst nicht zeigen, was du bist. Wie schad, o Mensch, dass dir das Gute Im Grunde so zuwider ist. Friedrich Hebbel — Was droben in den Wipfeln rauscht, das wird hier unten ausgetauscht. Comment Fairy Song Oh, where do fairies hide their heads When snow lies on the hills When frost has spoil'd their mossy beds And crystalized their rills? Beneath the moon they cannot trip In circles o're the plain, And drafts of dew they cannot sip Till green leaves come again Till green leaves come again.
Perhaps in small blue diving bells They plunge beneath the waves, Inhabiting the wreathed shells That lie in coral caves Perhaps in red Vesuvius Carousals they maintain And cheer their little spirits up Till green leaves come again Till green leaves come again.
When back they come there'll be glad mirth And music in the air, And fairy wings upon the earth, And mischief everywhere The maids, to keep the elves aloof, will bar the doors in vain, No keyhole will be fairy proof When green leaves come again Wo wohnen denn die Feen im Winter? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.