po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composing poetry. [Middle English poesie, from Old French, from Latin posis, from Greek poisis, from poiein, to create; see kwei-2 in Indo-European roots.]

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Thursday, August 28, 2014

Johan Wolfgang von Goethe - August 28

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
August 28, 1749 - March 22, 1832

Calm At Sea
Silence deep rules o'er the waters,
Calmly slumb'ring lies the main,
While the sailor views with trouble
Nought but one vast level plain.

Not a zephyr is in motion!
Silence fearful as the grave!
In the mighty waste of ocean
Sunk to rest is ev'ry wave.


Light and silv'ry cloudlets hover
In the air, as yet scarce warm;
Mild, with glimmer soft tinged over,
Peeps the sun through fragrant balm.

Gently rolls and heaves the ocean
As its waves the bank o'erflow.
And with restless motion
Moves the verdure to and fro,

Mirror'd brightly far below.
What is now the foliage moving?
Air is still, and hush'd the breeze,
Sultriness, this fullness loving,

Through the thicket, from the trees.
Now the eye at once gleams brightly,
See! the infant band with mirth
Moves and dances nimbly, lightly,
As the morning gave it birth,
Flutt'ring two and two o'er earth.

The Violet

A violet in the meadow grew,
Bowed to earth, and hid from view:
It was a dear sweet violet.
Along came a young shepherdess
Free of heart, and light of step,
Came by, came by,
Singing, through the flowers.

Oh! Thought the violet, were I,
If only for a little while,
Nature’s sweetest flower yet,
Till my Beloved picked me, pressed
Me fainting, dying to her breast!
So I might lie,
There, for but an hour!

Alas! Alas! The girl went past:
Unseen the violet in the grass,
Was crushed, poor violet. 
It drooped and died, and yet it cried:
‘And though I die, yet still I die
By her, by her,
By her feet passing by.’

The Artist’s Evening Song

Oh, for some inner creative force
Through my mind, echoing!
That through my hands might course
A sap-filled blossoming.

I only shudder, I only stutter, 
And yet can’t halt: at last,
I feel I know you, Nature,
And must hold you fast.

When I think how all these years
My powers have been growing,
And where barren heath appeared
Now streams of joy are flowing:

How I yearn for you, Nature, then,
And long for you, with faith and love!
For me you’ll be the leaping fountain,
A thousand springs will hurl above.

And every single power
In my mind you’ll heighten,
And this narrow being-here
To Eternity you’ll widen.

To The Moon (Final Version)

Bushes, valleys, silently,
You fill with misty light,
Easing my soul utterly
Again, at last, at night:

Soothingly you cast your gaze
Over a dark country,
As gentle and friendly eyes
Guard my destiny. 

Glad, and troubled, times
Echo in my heart,
I walk between pain and delight,
In solitude, apart. 

Flow on, beloved flood: flow on!
I’ll never know joy again,
Laughter and kisses, both are gone,
And loyalty flows away.

There was a time I had as yet
Life’s most precious thing!
Ah, a man can never forget
That which torments him!

River, through the valley, murmur,
Without rest or peace,
For my singing, gently whisper,
Murmuring melodies,

When you rage on winter nights
And then overflow,
Or when around the Spring’s delights
Of bursting buds, you go.

Happy are we if, without hate,
Hidden from the world,
We hold a friend to our heart
And with him explore

What, unknown to all their art,
Ignored, by all mankind,
Through the labyrinth of the heart
Wanders in the night.


Friday, August 08, 2014

August 8 - Sara Teasdale

Reposted, because I love her poems

Originally posted Wednesday, August 08, 2007


Sara Teasdale August 8, 1884- January 29, 1933

American lyric poet, born in St. Louis, Missouri. Her delicate, personal poetry often deals with love, death, disillusionment, and also the beauties of the natural world. She ended her life by suicide at the age of 48.

Some of Sara Teasdale's poems:


I am not sorry for my soul
That it must go unsatisfied,
For it can live a thousand times,
Eternity is deep and wide.

I am not sorry for my soul,
But oh, my body that must go
Back to a little drift of dust
Without the joy it longed to know.


So soon my body will have gone
Beyond the sound and sight of men,
And tho' it wakes and suffers now,
Its sleep will be unbroken then;
But oh, my frail immortal soul
That will not sleep forevermore,
A leaf borne onward by the blast,
A wave that never finds the shore.

If Death Is Kind

Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.

We will come down at night to these resounding beaches
And the long gentle thunder of the sea,
Here for a single hour in the wide starlight
We shall be happy, for the dead are free.


Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things;
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell;
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And, for the Spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Give all you have for loveliness;
Buy it, and never count the cost!
For one white, singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost;
And for a breath of ecstasy,
Give all you have been, or could be.

At Midnight

Now at last I have come to see what life is,
Nothing is ever ended, everything only begun,
And the brave victories that seem so splendid
Are never really won.

Even love that I built my spirit's house for,
Comes like a brooding and a baffled guest,
And music and men's praise and even laughter
Are not so good as rest.

-- Cat