Series was designed to cover groups of books generally understood as such see Wikipedia: Book series. Like many concepts in the book world, "series" is a somewhat fluid and contested notion. A good rule of thumb is that series have a conventional name and are intentional creations , on the part of the author or publisher. For now, avoid forcing the issue with mere "lists" of works possessing an arbitrary shared characteristic, such as relating to a particular place. Avoid series that cross authors, unless the authors were or became aware of the series identification eg.
Your use of the site and services is subject to these policies and terms. Series description. Related series Firebrand series. Wounded Warriors [Lora Leigh]. Related publisher series Ellora's Cave Moderne. Languages: native English, studied German, Latin. Site activity. We could overcome everything. Calzones de elefante. I like your explanation. Maybe it is an old sailor term. I wouldn't know, I was never a pirate. It's a really strange saying, even for English. It's an old saying that has never died with time, My Heart Will Go On. Gottfried Benn - gilt als einer der bedeutendsten deutschen Dichter der literarischen Moderne.
Comment Oh ja, ein paar deutschsprachige Lyriker dazu ist auch nicht schlecht. Comment Und wie lautet der Titel zu diesem Gedicht, Phillipp? Erscheint auf S. Die letzten zwei Zeilen sind gut. Aber dann wie kann es ja anders sein? Aber wie gesagt: Danke! Comment Der alte Lear will abtreten.
Can't live with you, can't live without you
Cordelia: Then poor Cordelia! Cordelia: Nothing, my lord. Lear: Nothing? Cordelia: Nothing. Lear: Nothing will come of nothing: speak again. Lear: How, how, Cordelia! Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all? Happily, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all.
Lear: But goes thy heart with this? Cordelia: Ay, my good Lord. Lear: So young, and so untender? Cordelia: So young, my Lord, and true. Lear: Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist, and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee, from this, for ever.
The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and relieved, As thou my sometime daughter. Comment Furcht der Geliebten Cidli, du weinest, und ich schlumre sicher, Wo im Sande der Weg verzogen fortschleicht; Auch wenn stille Nacht ihn umschattend decket, Schlumr' ich ihn sicher.
Weine nicht, Cidli. Inhalt und Form decken sich auch vollkommen. Er war ein junger Schmetterling, Der selig an der Blume hing. Ach Gott, wie das dem Schmetterling So schmerzlich durch die Seele ging. Doch was am meisten ihn entsetzt, Das Allerschlimmste kam zuletzt. Wilhelm Busch - Comment Klasse!! Die Kraft, infolge der Erregung, Verwandelt sich in Schwungbewegung. Bewegung, die in schnellem Blitze Zur Backe eilt, wird hier zu Hitze. Comment Danke, Chaostranslater. Es lohnt sich, den "einflussreichsten humoristischen Dichter und Zeichner Deutschlands" Wikip.
Hier noch ein weiteres Gedichtchen: Wirklich, er war unentbehrlich! Ohne ihn war nichts zu machen, Keine Stunde hatt' er frei. Gestern, als sie ihn begruben, War er richtig auch dabei. Wilhelm Busch aus: Kritik des Herzens Comment Seine Lyrik zeichnet sich durch eine einfache, die Nachkriegsgesellschaft in ihrer ideellen Leere spiegelnde Sprache aus, die beim Leser dennoch komplexe Assoziationen und Bilder evoziert. There's sound of distant thunder.
The latest sea-birds hover Along the cliff's sheer height; As in the memory wander Last flutterings of delight, White wings lost on the white. There's not a ship in sight; And as the sun goes under, Thick clouds conspire to cover The moon that should rise yonder. Thou art alone, fond lover. Robert Seymour Bridges — Detlev von Liliencron - Sie aalt sich im Sand und zeigt alles her.
Sie gibt der Sonne reichlich zu schaun. Aber zum 4. Todestag gest. Juni , konnte ich einfach nicht widerstehen. Summer's heat can swelter and melt As summer's heat may simmer as weld. Some summer's heat can burn as long This summer's heat can impel a song. Summer's heat can cook and bake Summer's heat of life can take. Boil and broil a heart so hot Comment At the Fishhouses Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, a dark purple-brown, and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water. The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up to storerooms in the gables for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, is opaque, but the silver of the benches, the lobster pots, and masts, scattered among the wild jagged rocks, is of an apparent translucence like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined with layers of beautiful herring scales The water seems suspended above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones. I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, icily free above the stones, above the stones and then the world. If you should dip your hand in, your wrist would ache immediately, your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn as if the water were a transmutation of fire that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, then briny, then surely burn your tongue. It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, drawn from the cold hard mouth of the world, derived from the rocky breasts forever, flowing and drawn, and since our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown. The population numbered two giants, an idiot, a dwarf, a gentle storekeeper asleep behind his counter, and our kind landlady— the dwarf was her dressmaker. The idiot could be beguiled by picking blackberries, but then threw them away. The shrunken seamstress smiled.
He was morose, but she was cheerful. The bedroom was cold, the feather bed close. We were awakened in the dark by the somnambulist brook nearing the sea, still dreaming audibly. Comment ich was not yet in brasilien nach brasilien wuld ich laik du go wer de wimen arr so ander so quait ander denn anderwo ich was not yet in brasilien nach brasilien wuld ich laik du go als ich anderschdehn mange lanquidsch will ich anderschdehn auch lanquidsch in rioo Juli , S. Comment Between the Dusk of a Summer Night Between the dusk of a summer night And the dawn of a summer day, We caught at a mood as it passed in flight, And we bade it stoop and stay.
And what with the dawn of night began With the dusk of day was done; For that is the way of woman and man, When a hazard has made them one. Arc upon arc, from shade to shine, The World went thundering free; And what was his errand but hers and mine -- The lords of him, I and she? O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one. Comment Innerlichkeit, Paarreime und Katharsis einer Leserin The More Loving One Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time. Comment The Sons of Martha The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part; But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest, Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest. It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock. It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock. It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain, Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
They say to mountains, 'Be ye removed. Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit -- then is the bed of the deep laid bare, That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware. They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires. He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall, And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall. To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar. They are concerned with matters hidden -- under the earthline their altars are -- The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth, And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth. They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose. They do not teach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they dam'-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand, Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land. Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat -- Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed, But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need. And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed -- they know the Angels are on their side. They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied. They sit at the Feet -- they hear the Word -- they see how truly the Promise runs. Rudyard Kipling - April in Brachthausen, Sauerland ist eine deutsche Schriftstellerin. Sie schreibt Lyrik und Romane.
Heute lebt sie in Hamburg und ist mit Klaus von Dohnanyi verheiratet. O plain as plain can be There's nothing but our own red blood Can make a right Rose Tree.
He also suggests that Ireland would be green again if this conflict stopped and Irish blood has been spilt. Comment Two Months June No hope, no change! The clouds have shut us in, And through the cloud the sullen Sun strikes down Full on the bosom of the tortured Town, Till Night falls heavy as remembered sin That will not suffer sleep or thought of ease, And, hour on hour, the dry-eyed Moon in spite Glares through the haze and mocks with watery light The torment of the uncomplaining trees. Far off, the Thunder bellows her despair To echoing Earth, thrice parched.
The lightnings fly In vain. No help the heaped-up clouds afford, But wearier weight of burdened, burning air. What truce with Dawn? Look, from the aching sky, Day stalks, a tyrant with a flaming sword! September At dawn there was a murmur in the trees, A ripple on the tank, and in the air Presage of coming coolness -- everywhere A voice of prophecy upon the breeze. Up leapt the Sun and smote the dust to gold, And strove to parch anew the heedless land, All impotently, as a King grown old Wars for the Empire crumbling 'neath his hand.
One after one the lotos-petals fell, Beneath the onslaught of the rebel year, In mutiny against a furious sky; And far-off Winter whispered: -- "It is well! Behold your help is near, "For when men's need is sorest, then come I. Rudyard Kipling fehlte hier noch. Und wie viele andere Leser kannte ich Kipling eigentlich nur vom Dschungelbuch her. Rose of All the World I am here myself; as though this heave of effort At starting other life, fulfilled my own; Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown By all the blood of the rose-bush into being - Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly To bring together two strange sparks, beget Another life from our lives, so should send The innermost fire of my own dim soul out-spinning And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me!
That my completion of manhood should be the beginning Another life from mine! For so it looks. The seed is purpose, blossom accident. The seed is all in all, the blossom lent To crown the triumph of this new descent. Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so? The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire Fans out your petals for excess of flame, Till all your being smokes with fine desire? Or are we kindled, you and I, to be One rose of wonderment upon the tree Of perfect life, and is our possible seed But the residuum of the ecstasy? How will you have it? The sharp begetting, or the child begot?
Our consummation matters, or does it not? To me it seems the seed is just left over From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience; Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence. Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive; For me it is more than enough if the flower unclose. Lawrence — Wie ist die Zeit vertan! Der Port naht mehr und mehr sich zu der Glieder Kahn. Gleich wie dies Licht verfiel, so wird in wenig Jahren Ich, du, und was man hat, und was man sieht, hinfahren.
Dein ewig heller Glanz sei vor und neben mir! Andreas Gryphius - Ich war zornig auf den Feind; schwieg: mein Zorn vermehrte sich. Tiefer neigt sich das Korn, der rote Mohn. Das alte Lied der Grille erstirbt im Feld. Nimmer regt sich das Laub der Kastanie. Auf der Wendeltreppe rauscht dein Kleid. Der wird zur Pflanze, wenn er will, zum Tier, zum Narr, zum Weisen, und kann in einer Stunde durchs ganze Weltall reisen. Der mit sich selbst in Frieden lebt, der wird genauso sterben, und ist selbst dann lebendiger, als alle seine Erben.
Novalis, He becomes the plant if it wants, Or the animal, the fool, or wise man and can travel in an hour through the entire universe. He knows that he nothing knows, Like the others who doesn't know anything But knows what he and the others have to learn about. Who feels alien shores in himself, and who has courage to stretch himself, to be active he will discover himself, bit by nit and undisturbed of fear. He will look downward to the mountain tops? Who hears butterflies laughing, He knows, how clouds taste, He will discover night in the moonlight undisturbed of fear.
He who live in peace with himself, He will also die in peace, And he will be more lively as all his offsprings. Translation by Novalis 'Novalis' is the name of a German art rock band from the seventies. Comment To a Skylark Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert- That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
Der Rhein; The Rhine - German Literature
In the golden light'ning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight- Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers- All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh-thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt- A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet, if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know; Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Horst W. Comment On the See It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from where it sometime fell. When last the winds of Heaven were unbound. Oh, ye! Februar in Rom. Nikolaus Lenau , - The leaves unhooked themselves from trees And started all abroad; The dust did scoop itself like hands And throw away the road.
The wagons quickened on the streets, The thunder hurried slow; The lightning showed a yellow beak, And then a livid claw. The birds put up the bars to nests, The cattle fled to barns; There came one drop of giant rain, And then, as if the hands That held the dams had parted hold, The waters wrecked the sky, But overlooked my father's house, Just quartering a tree. Emily Dickinson — John, in Patmos' Isle, In the passion of his toil, When he saw the churches seven, Golden aisl'd, built up in heaven, Gaz'd at such a rugged wonder.
As I stood its roofing under, Lo! I saw one sleeping there, On the marble cold and bare. While the surges wash'd his feet, And his garments white did beat Drench'd about the sombre rocks, On his neck his well-grown locks, Lifted dry above the main, Were upon the curl again. This was architectur'd thus By the great Oceanus! Many a mortal of these days, Dares to pass our sacred ways, Dares to touch audaciously This Cathedral of the Sea! I have been the pontiff-priest Where the waters never rest, Where a fledgy sea-bird choir Soars for ever; holy fire I have hid from mortal man; Proteus is my Sacristan.
But the dulled eye of mortal Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal; So for ever will I leave Such a taint, and soon unweave All the magic of the place. Bereits die Wikinger kannten die Insel. Bearbeitungsstand: 4. Juni , UTC. Abgerufen: Juli , UTC. Comment Requiescat Read lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it. Oscar Wilde - Comment Requiescat by Oscar Wilde is a tragic elegy based upon the death of Wilde's younger sister Isola, who died at the age of Was immer das Leiden angeht und seinen Rang — die Alten Meister, da sahn sie durch!
Wie die verstanden, es einzuordnen ins Alltagsleben. Noch auch das kostbare Kauffahrerschiff, sah da kein Aas denn Nicht irgend wie wo was Erstaunliches geschehn: Ein Junge! Es ist auf dem Weg nach irgend wo hin — und segelt gelassen davon. Wo bleibt die Ehrfurcht gegen mich? Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind. Dem Vater grauset's, er gibt mehr Gas: "Halt' dich, mein Sohn, sonst passiert noch was!
Der Sozius hinter ihm Guadalquivir, alta torre y viento en los naranjales. Dauro y Genil, torrecillas muertas sobre los estanques. Gart, gerade gestern war ich im Spanisch-Forum. Who went and never returned The river Guadalquivir Has beards of maroon The two rivers of Granada One a cry the other blood. Como un arco de viola el grito ha hecho vibrar largas cuerdas del viento. Las gentes de las cuevas asoman sus velones.
Comment Words, Wide Night Somewhere on the other side of this wide night and the distance between us, I am thinking of you. The room is turning slowly away from the moon. This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross to reach you Comment Ein Sommermorgen an der Adria This Unimportant Morning This unimportant morning Something goes singing where The capes turn over on their sides And the warm Adriatic rides Her blue and sun washing At the edge of the world and its brilliant cliffs. Day rings in the higher airs Pure with cicadas, and slowing Like a pulse to smoke from farms, Extinguished in the exhausted earth, Unclenching like a fist and going.
Comment Acropolis The soft quem quam will be Scops the Owl conjugation of nouns, a line of enquiry, powdery stubble of the socratic prison laurels crack like parchments in the wind. Comment 'Where are we going, man? Wir haben Leiden. Doch kein Leid. Und Freiheit ohne frei zu sein. Von allem haben wir: Den Schein. Wir treten auf.
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Wir treten ab. Und spielen Rollen: Bis ans Grab. Comment The Garden En robe de parade. Samain Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia. And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth. In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive. Comment Ode To A Nightingale My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Fled is that musicdo I wake or sleep? II O, einen Schluck des Weins! Heinrich Heine — Comment Delos For Diana Gould On charts they fall like lace, Islands consuming in a sea Born dense with its own blue: And like repairing mirrors holding up Small towns and trees and rivers To the still air, the lovely air: From the clear side of springing Time, In clement places where the windmills ride, Turning over grey springs in Mykonos, In shadows with a gesture of content.
Wer das Original liest, merkt wohl, dass es einige mehrdeutige Stellen gibt In dieser Hinsicht ist Durrell keine Ausnahme. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature. John Keats. Then he struggled with he heart; Innocence and peace depart. Then he struggled with the mind; His proud heart he left behind. Now his wars on God begin; At stroke of midnight God shall win. William Butler Yeats Comment On His Blindness WHEN I consider how my light is spent E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, least he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State Is Kingly.
Thousands at his bidding speed And post o're Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite. John Milton. Dann rang er mit dem Herz und verlor seine Unschuld und seinen Frieden. Lucky, this point in time and space Is chosen as my working-place, Where the sexy airs of summer, The bathing hours and the bare arms, The leisured drives through a land of farms Are good to a newcomer. Equal with colleagues in a ring I sit on each calm evening Enchanted as the flowers The opening light draws out of hiding With all its gradual dove-like pleading, Its logic and its powers:.
Comment On a Drop of Dew See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born Round in its self incloses, And in its little globe's extent Frames as it can its native element. How it the purple flow'r does slight, Scarce touching where it lies, But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light; Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere. Restless it rolls and unsecure, Trembling lest it grow impure, Till the warm sun pity its pain, And to the skies exhale it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flow'r be seen, Rememb'ring still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green; And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater Heaven in an Heaven less. In how coy a figure wound Every way it turns away: So the world excluding round, Yet receiving in the day. Dark beneath, but bright above: Here disdaining, there in love.
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How loose and easy hence to go: How girt and ready to ascend. Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil; White and intire, though congealed and chill. Congealed on earth: but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of th' Almighty Sun.
Andrew Marvell 31 March — 16 August Hier ist der Schatten ihrer Freude. Conrad Ferdinand Meyer — Gedicht aus dem Jahr , in dem er die fontana dei cavalli marini in der Villa Borghese beschreibt. Comment Summer Breeze. Comment " Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul? I cannot stop asking. If I could taste one sip of an answer, I could break out of this prison for drunks. I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home. The tall trees stood in the sunlight As still as still could be, But the deep grass sighed and rustled And bowed and beckoned me. The deep grass moved and whispered And bowed and brushed my face. It whispered in the sunshine: "The winter comes apace.
Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired. Hummel Motorenwerke AG. Policen, die unter seinem Namen abgeschlossen wurden, beweisen, er war rundum versichert, Und seine Krankenakte zeigt, dass er einmal im Krankenhaus war, aber Geheilt entlassen wurde. Und unsere Lehrer berichten, dass er sich niemals in ihren Unterricht einmischte. War er frei? Aus dem hohlen finstern Tor Dringt ein buntes Gewimmel hervor. Jeder sonnt sich heute so gern. Sieh nur, sieh! Selbst von des Berges fernen Pfaden Blinken uns farbige Kleider an.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust I. Februar in Karlsruhe deutscher Autor, Bearbeiter und Redakteur. I said, Johnson, Alberta K. But he hated to write The K that way. He said, What Does K stand for? I said, K-- And nothing more. It spoke of Black writers and poets, "who would surrender racial pride in the name of a false integration," where a talented Black writer would prefer to be considered a poet, not a Black poet, which to Hughes meant he subconsciously wanted to write like a white poet.
Series: Lust de LYX
Hughes argued, "no great poet has ever been afraid of being himself. Hugo Salus, aus der Sammlung Neue Garben. Februar in Prag war Arzt und deutschsprachiger Schriftsteller. Comment WO? Unter Linden an dem Rhein? For this man, wandering so wearingly, Where would be the last resting shrine? Is it in the South, under a palm-tree, Or, under a lime-tree, on the Rhine? Shall I , somewhere in a wasteland, Be buried by a foreign hand? Or, somewhere on an ocean's strand, Rest deep, buried in its sand?
I shall be surrounded, regardless, By the divine heaven, wherever I shall be, And, at night, like lights of death, The stars will hover over me. Beherzigung Ist es besser, ruhig bleiben? Klammernd fest sich anzuhangen? Ist es besser, sich zu treiben? Soll er unter Zelten leben? Soll er auf die Felsen trauen? Selbst die festen Felsen beben. For thy song, Lark, is strong; Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing, With clouds and sky about thee ringing, Lift me, guide me till I find That spot which seems so to thy mind! I have walked through wildernesses dreary And to-day my heart is weary; Had I now the wings of a Faery, Up to thee would I fly. There is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine; Lift me, guide me high and high To thy banqueting-place in the sky.