Сategory: Poetry


Monday, 05 Nov 2018

Poetry about November

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Helen Hunt Jackson


This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet’s day of pain?

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Thomas Hood

No sun – no moon!
No morn – no noon –
No dawn – no dusk – no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member –
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! –

Sonnet 1 by William Shakespeare

Tuesday, 16 Oct 2018


Сонет Шекспира на английском языке

Sonnet 1 by William Shakespeare

С переводом С. Я. Маршака, А. М. Финкеля, М. Чайковского


From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

Sonnet 1 by William Shakespeare

Мы урожая ждем от лучших лоз,
Чтоб красота жила, не увядая.
Пусть вянут лепестки созревших роз,
Хранит их память роза молодая.
А ты, в свою влюбленный красоту,
Все лучшие ей отдавая соки,
Обилье превращаешь в нищету,
– Свой злейший враг, бездушный и жестокий.
Ты – украшенье нынешнего дня,
Недолговременной весны глашатай,
– Грядущее в зачатке хороня,
Соединяешь скаредность с растратой.
Жалея мир, земле не предавай

Грядущих лет прекрасный урожай!

Сонет 1 в переводе Cамуила Маршака

Мы красоте желаем размноженья,
Нам хочется, чтоб цвет ее не вял,
– Чтоб зрелый плод, – как все, добыча тленья
– Нам нежного наследника давал.
А ты, плененный сам собой,питая
Твой юный пыл своим топливом, сам
Творя бесплодье вместо урожая,
Сам враг себе, жесток к своим дарам.
Ты ныне миру вешних дней отрада,
Один глашатай прелестей весны,
В зачатке губишь цвет твоей услады,
Скупец и мот небесной красоты.

Так пожалей же мир, иначе плод Твоей красы с тобою гроб пожрет.

Сонет 1 в переводе Модеста Чайковского

От всех творений мы потомства ждем,
Чтоб роза красоты не увядала,
Чтобы, налившись зрелостью,
потом В наследниках себя бы продолжала.
Но ты привязан к собственным глазам,
Собой самим свое питаешь пламя,
И там, где тук, ты голод сделал сам,
Вредя себе своими же делами.
Теперь еще и свеж ты и красив,
Весны веселой вестник безмятежный.
Но сам себя в себе похоронив,
От скупости беднеешь, скряга нежный.
Жалея мир, грабителем не стань

И должную ему отдай ты дань.

Сонет 1 в переводе Александра Финкеля


Friday, 24 Feb 2017

sing until your heart gives out
that’s what they all say
but what is left after that
if the music takes it all away?

if you sing until your lungs give out
what breath is left to tell anyone
just how you feel about them?
you’re finished before you’ve even begun.

all I’m trying to say
is that when you sing
let the music take you high above the clouds
until you’ve forgotten everything.

music is equal to love
that’s what they tell me
but what if you love someone greatly
and there is no way to sing them down onto one knee?

your heart will break
your lungs will start crying
for air and all you will know to say
is not to worry, you will still be flying.


Get Lost In The Music

Friday, 24 Feb 2017

Music is part of my everyday life,
it’s the one thing that makes me feel alive.
No matter what it could be,
all music influences me.

Music teaches me everything I do,
After hearing the words, you know it suits you.
Without music I don’t know what I would do,
when I’m feeling bad it’s the only place I can go to.

Music is my life, my desire,
As I listen, it builds me higher.
No matter what kind, rock, country, or rap,
you can’t convince me that any of it is crap.

Whatever you’re feeling, whether its happy, sad or fear,
just turn it up and listen to what you hear.
To me music could never go wrong,
I could listen to it all day long.

by Roxane Faulkner

Annabel Lee

Friday, 24 Feb 2017

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

By Edgar Allan Poe

Bear In There

Friday, 24 Feb 2017

There’s a Polar Bear
In our Frigidaire–
He likes it ’cause it’s cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He’s nibbling the noodles,
He’s munching the rice,
He’s slurping the soda,
He’s licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And it gives me a scare
To know he’s in there–
That Polary Bear
In our Fridgitydaire.

by Shel Silverstein

A Dream Within A Dream

Friday, 24 Feb 2017

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

by Edgar Allan Poe

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Friday, 24 Feb 2017

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
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 only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

by Robert Frost

Wind On The Hill

Thursday, 20 Oct 2016

No one can tell me,

Nobody knows,

Where the wind comes from,

Where the wind goes.

It’s flying from somewhere

As fast as it can,

I couldn’t keep up with it,

Not if I ran.

But if I stopped holding

The string of my kite,

It would blow with the wind

For a day and a night.

And then when I found it,

Wherever it blew,

I should know that the wind

Had been going there too.

So then I could tell them

Where the wind goes…

But where the wind comes from

Nobody knows.

By A. A. Milne

Twelve months

Thursday, 20 Oct 2016

January brings the snow,

Makes our feet and fingers glow/

February snows again

And sometimes it brings us rain.

March brings sunny days and winds

So we know that spring begins.

April begins the primrose sweet,

We see daisies at our feet.

May brings flowers, joy and grass

And the holidays for us.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses.

Fills the children,s hands with posies.

Hot July brings apples and cherries

And a lot of berries.

August brings us golden corn,

Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings us school,

Days are shorter, nights are cool.

Fresh October brings much fruit

Then to gather them is good.

Red November brings us joy,

Fun for every girl and boy.

Cold December brings us skating,

For the New Year we are waiting.