Sitater og små dikt og visdomsord

[Strider]

John Keats som skrev "Ode to a nightingale" ... *drømme*

*liker også leken*

THE TYGER

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

- William Blake

Call me a cliche , but I'm a sucker for this one

[Zatharee]

No wonder, it's a good one.

Here's another classic:

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me
Black as the Pit from pole to pole
I thank whatever gods maybe
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate
How charged with punishment the scroll
I am the Master of my fate
I am the Captain of my soul.

-- William Earnest Henley

Always liked this one...

[Strider]

Den hadde jeg faktisk ikke lest før! *skammer seg litt*

A Small Dragon

I?ve found a small dragon in the woodshed.
Think it must have come from deep inside a forest
because it?s damp and green and leaves
are still reflecting in its eyes.

I fed it on many things, tried grass,
the roots of stars, hazelnut and dandelion,
but it stared up at me as if to say, I need
food you can?t provide.

It made a nest among the coal,
not unlike a birds but larger,
it is out of place here
and it is quiet.

If you believed in it I would come
hurrying to your house to let you share my wonder,
but I want instead to see
if you yourself will pass this way.

-Brian Patten


(Har en svakhet for Liverpoolpoetene, jeg.)

[Zatharee]

Sweet.. Jeg liker drager.. Her er en liten fortsettelse på temaet:

Dragon Dreams

Flights of dragon Fancy on Wings of gold.
Dreams of Power as we grow old.
Children play while we can't see,
What lives in our own fantasy.

We dream of gold and money too
While our children build a fort it’s true
We lose our dreams as time goes by
And we watch them through our children’s eyes

When last did you dream of things untold
Of monsters, demons, knights of old
Castles flying in the sky
All things seen in our children’s eyes

When next you chose to fall asleep
Try not to lose your dreams and weep
But dream the dreams you dreamed back then
When children’s eyes you held within

-Jason D. Tomchuk

*sverme*

[stjernesludd]

"All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others."

- George Orwell (Animal Farm)

[Strider]

Zatharee: det der var... nydelig.

Hørt denne før: ?



We are seven

--------A SIMPLE Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

[Zatharee]

Nei, den var ny.. Simply beautiful. Hvem skrev?

Det fikk meg til å tenke på dette, av Yeats:

To a child dancing in the wind

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

[Strider]

William Wordsworth som skrev det Glemte å skrive det....
Yeats er fantastisk.

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill:
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

[imzaraiel]

Like a rotten log
half buried in the ground-
my life, which
has not flowered comes
to this sad end.

Minamoto Yorimasa

[Zatharee]

Strider: The sea, you say..? And a good one, too! Sad or sinister sea poems... There are many more where that one came from! Well, here's one of them:

The City in the Sea

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave- there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.

-- Edgar Allan Poe

[Glahn]

Upon His Verses

What offspring other men have got.
The how, where, when I question not.
These are the children I have left;
Adopted some, none got by theft.
But all are touched (like lawful plate)
And no verse illegitimate.

Robert Herrick

[Ulven]

det beste er å gjøre ingenting, og hvile etterpå

[Strider]

[Zatharee]

[Strider]

[Zatharee]

[Glahn]

Ti det er ens eget indre, som er sorgens eller glædens kilde.

Knut Hamsun - Pan.

[Strider]

Erlkönig .... *sukk*

Ja, har hatt tysk i 5 år, så kan det:) Elsker også det diktet. *sukksukksukk*

Tror det var min bestemor som viste det til meg første gang, når jeg var veldig liten:)

*mimre*

Historien bak var vel at Død drar med Drøm ut (som vanlig ) , og de går på kro sammen. Der er det en mann som ikke har videre lyst til å dø, og Drøm og mannen avtales å møtes igjen om hundre år. Slik fortsetter det videre, og det er under et av disse rendez-vous at vår kjære Morfeus møter den unge Will. Ring a bell?

Forlorn

On yonder hill lies a body...
'Tis the body of a knight, slain
With armour tainted and bloody,
His bold efforts were all in vain.

On yonder hill he perished, in grief
As the wind faded slowly away
He thought of the Wizard's mischief
And of his Sereiné, that ne'er could stay.

'Twas the knight's sword 'gainst wizard's staff
Long was the fight, and the outcome dreary
'Twas arcane words 'gainst haughty laugh
On this hill he died, betrayed and weary.

On yonder hill now, her heart swiftly throbs
As the wailing wind reluctantly dies
He cannot hear her bitter sobs
Nor her mangled cries.

Closed are his sparkling eyes
Sparkle they shall, no more!
Forgotten shall be his ways
And his sword ne'er sing as yore.

On yonder hill, she kneels now afore him
His sword to be used one last time
Scarlet drops swirling as her sight grows dim
She adamantly whispers his name.

On yonder hill lies their earthly graves
Covered by the rustling autumn-leaves
Soon to perish, by what winter craves
A site of tragedy, Which only the wind now perceives.

[Zatharee]

[Zatharee]