Poemas en ingles

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Maya Angelou -Human family-
2006-05-09 16:06:00
Human family Maya Angelo u (EEUU, 1928- )I note the obvious differencesin the human family.Some of us are serious,some thrive on comedy. Some declare their lives are livedas true profundity,and others claim they really livethe real reality. The variety of our skin tonescan confuse, bemuse, delight,brown and pink and beige and purple,tan and blue and white. I've sailed upon the seven seasand stopped in every land,I've seen the wonders of the worldnot yet one common man. I know ten thousand womencalled Jane and Mary Jane,but I've not seen any twowho really were the same.Mirror twins are differentalthough their features jibe,and lovers think quite different thoughtswhile lying side by side. (...)I note the obvious differencesbetween each sort and type,but we are more alike, my friends,than we are unalike. We are more alike, my friends,than we are unalike. We are more alike, my friends,than we are unalike.La Familia humanaNoto las diferencias obvias en la familia humana.Algunos somos ...
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Maya Angelou -Still I rise-
2006-05-09 15:55:00
Still I riseMaya Angelo u (EEUU, 1928- )You may write me down in historyWith your bitter, twisted lies,You may trod me in the very dirtBut still, like dust, I'll rise.Does my sassiness upset you?Why are you beset with gloom?'Cause I walk like I've got oil wellsPumping in my living room.Just like moons and like suns,With the certainty of tides,Just like hopes springing high,Still I'll rise.Did you want to see me broken?Bowed head and lowered eyes?Shoulders falling down like teardrops.Weakened by my soulful cries.Does my haughtiness offend you?Don't you take it awful hard'Cause I laugh like I've got gold minesDiggin' in my own back yard.You may shoot me with your words,You may cut me with your eyes,You may kill me with your hatefulness,But still, like air, I'll rise.Does my sexiness upset you?Does it come as a surpriseThat I dance like I've got diamondsAt the meeting of my thighs?Out of the huts of history's shameI riseUp from a past that's rooted in painI riseI'm a black ...
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Simon Armitage -Man with a golf ball heart-
2006-05-07 23:04:00
Man with a golf ball heart Simon Armitage (England, 1963 - )They set about him with a knife and fork, I heard,and spooned it out. Dunlop, dimpled, perfectly hard.It bounced on stone but not on softer ground-they madea note of that. They slit the skin-a leathery,rubbery, eyelid thing-and further in, three milesof gut or string, elastic. Inside that, a pouchor sac of pearl-white balm or gloss, like Copydex.It weighed in at the low end of the litmus testbut wouldn't burn, and tasted bitter, bad, resinperhaps from a tree or plant. And it gave off gasthat caused them all to weep when they inspected it.That heart had been an apple once, they reckoned. Green.They had a scheme to plant an apple there againbeginning with a pip, but he rejected it.Hombre con corazón de pelota de golfSe le fueron encima con tenedor y cuchillo, me contaron,y se lo extirparon con una cuchara: Dunlop, cacarizo, totalmente duro.Rebotaba en la piedra pero no en un suelo blando. Tomaronnota de eso. Rebanaron la pie...
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Simon Armitage -It ain't what you do it's what it does to you-
2006-05-07 23:04:00
It ain't what you do it's what it does to you Simon Armitage (England, 1963 - )I have not bummed across Americawith only a dollar to spare, one pairof busted Levi's and a bowie knife.I have lived with thieves in Manchester.I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,barefoot, listening to the space betweeneach footfall picking up and putting downits print against the marble floor. But Iskimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a dayso still I could hear each set of ripplesas they crossed. I felt each stones' inertiaspend itself against the water; then sink.I have not toyed with a parachute cordwhile perched on the lip of a light aircraft;but I have held the wobbly head of a boyat the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.And I guess that the tightness in the throatand the tiny cascading sensationsomewhere inside us are both part of thatsense of something else. That feeling, I mean.No es lo que haces sino lo que eso te haceNo vagué por los Estados Unidoscon apenas un dólar en el bolsi...

Matthew Arnold -Dover beach-
2006-05-06 22:24:00
Dover beachMatthew Arnold (1822-1888)The sea is calm to-night.The tide is full, the moon lies fairUpon the straits;--on the French coast the lightGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!Only, from the long line of sprayWhere the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,Listen! you hear the grating roarOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,At their return, up the high strand,Begin, and cease, and then again begin,With tremulous cadence slow, and bringThe eternal note of sadness in.Sophocles long agoHeard it on the {AE}gean, and it broughtInto his mind the turbid ebb and flowOf human misery; weFind also in the sound a thought,Hearing it by this distant northern sea.The Sea of FaithWas once, too, at the full, and round earth's shoreLay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.But now I only hearIts melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,Retreating, to the breathOf the night-wind, down the v...
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John Ashbery -Self-portrait in a convex mirror-
2006-05-06 05:30:00
Self-portrait in a convex mirrorJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )As Parmigianino did it, the right handBigger than the head, thrust at the viewerAnd swerving easily away, as though to protectWhat it advertises. A few leaded panes, old beams,Fur, pleated muslin, a coral ring run togetherIn a movement supporting the face, which swimsToward and away like the handExcept that it is in repose. It is what isSequestered. Vasari says, "Francesco one day set himselfTo take his own portrait, looking at himself from that purposeIn a convex mirror, such as is used by barbers . . .He accordingly caused a ball of wood to be madeBy a turner, and having divided it in half andBrought it to the size of the mirror, he set himselfWith great art to copy all that he saw in the glass,Chiefly his reflection, of which the portraitIs the reflection once removed.The glass chose to reflect only what he sawWhich was enough for his purpose: his imageGlazed, embalmed, projected at a 180-degree angle.The time of day or t...
More About: Mirror , Portrait , Self Portrait , John Ashbery

John Ashbery -Fear of death-
2006-05-06 05:27:00
Fear of deathJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )What is it now with meAnd is it as I have become?Is there no state free from the boundary linesOf before and after? The window is open todayAnd the air pours in with piano notesIn its skirts, as though to say, "Look, John,I've brought these and these:?that is,A few Beethovens, some Brahmses,A few choice Poulenc notes. . .Yes,It is being free again, the air, it has to keep coming backBecause that's all it's good for.I want to stay with it out of fear.That keep me from walking up certain steps,Knocking at certain doors, fear of growing oldAlone, and of finding no one at the evening endOf the path except another myselfNodding a curt greeting: "Well, you've been awhileBut now we're back together, which is what counts."Air in my path, you could shorten this,But the breeze has dropped, and silence is the last word.Miedo a la muerte¿Qué me pasa ahora?¿Y ha sido justo cuando yo he cambiado?¿No existe un estado libre de las fronterasdel antes y ...
More About: Death , Fear , John Ashbery

John Ashbery -The one thing can save America-
2006-05-06 05:18:00
The one thing that can save America John Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )Is anything central?Orchards flung out on the land,Urban forests, rustic plantations, knee-high hills?Are place names central?Elm Grove, Adcock Corner, Story Book Farm?As they concur with a rush at eye levelBeating themselves into eyes which have had enoughThank you, no more thank you.And they come on like scenery mingled with darknessThe damp plains, overgrown suburbs,Places of known civic pride, of civil obscurity.These are connected to my version of AmericaBut the juice is elsewhere.This morning as I walked out of your roomAfter breakfast crosshatched withBackward and forward glances, backward into light,Forward into unfamiliar light,Was it our doing, and was itThe material, the lumber of life, or of livesWe were measuring, counting?A mood soon to be forgottenIn crossed girders of light, cool downtown shadowIn this morning that has seized us again?I know that I braid too much on my ownSnapped-off perceptions of things ...
More About: John Ashbery , Save , Thing

John Ashbery -River-
2006-05-06 05:16:00
RiverJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )It thinks itself too good forThese generalizations and isMoved on by them. The opposite sideIs plunged in shade, this oneIn self-esteem. But the centerKeeps collapsing and re-forming.The couple at a picnic table (butIt?s too early in the season for picnics)Are traipsed across by the river?sUnknowing knowledge of its workingsTo avoid possible boredom and the stainOf too much intuition the whole sceneIs walled behind glass. ?Too early,?She says, ?in the season.? A hawk drifts by.?Send everybody back to the city.?RíoSe cree demasiado bueno paraestas generalizaciones y ellasLo hacen avanzar. El lado opuestoestá sumido en sombra, ésteen auto-estima. Pero el centrono cesa de hundirse y de rehacerse.La pareja en la mesa de picnic (perono es tiempo todavía para picnics)es recorrida por el conocimientoinconsciente que el río tiene de su propio obrarpara evitar el tedio posible y la manchade una excesiva intuición toda la escena ocurretras una pared de cristal....
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John Ashbery -De Imagine Mundi-
2006-05-06 05:04:00
De Imagine Mund iJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )The many as noticed by the one:The noticed one, confusing itself with the manyYet perceives itself as an individualTraveling between two fixed points.Such glance as dares dart outTo pin you in your afternoon lair is only a reflex,A speech in a play consisting entirely of stage directionsBecause there happened to be a hole for it there.Unfortunately, fewer than one haif of one per centRecognized the divined gesture as currency(Which it is, albeit inflated)And the glance comes to rest on top of a steepleWith about as much interest as a bird?s.They had moved out here from BostonThose two. (The one, a fair sampleOf the fair-sheaved many,The other boggling into single oddnessPlays at it when he mustNot getting better or younger.)The weather kept them at their small tasks:Sorting out the news, mending this and that.The great poker face impinged on them. And rejoicedTo be a living reproach toSomething new they?ve got.Skeeter collecting info: ?Did ...
More About: John Ashbery

John Ashbery -Scheherazade-
2006-05-06 05:01:00
ScheherazadeJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )Unsupported by reason?s enigmaWater collects in squared stone catch basins.The land is dry. Under it movesThe water. Fish live in the wells. The leaves,A concerned green, are scrawled on the light. BadBindweed and rank ragweed somehow forget to flourish here.An inexhaustible wardrobe has been placed at the disposalOf each new occurrence. It can be itself now.Day is almost reluctant to declineAnd slowing down opens out new avenuesThat don?t infringe on space but are living here withOther dreams came and left while the bankOf colored verbs and adjectives was shrinking from the lightTo nurse in shade their want of a methodBut most of ah she loved the particlesThat transform objects of the same categoryInto particular ones, each distinctWithin and apart from its own class.In all this springing up was no hintOf a tide, oniy a pleasant wavering of the airIn which all things seemed present, whetherJust past or soon to come. It was all invitation.So mu...
More About: John Ashbery , Raza , Azad

John Ashbery -A man of words-
2006-05-06 04:58:00
A man of wordsJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )His case inspires interestBut little sympathy; it is smallerThan at first appeared. Does the first nettleMake any difference as what growsBecomes a skit? Three sides enclosed,The fourth open to a wash of the weather,Exits and entrances, gestures theatrically meantTo punctuate like doubled-over weeds asThe garden fills up with snow?Ah, but this would have been another, quite otherEntertainment, not the metallic tasteIn my mouth as I look away, density black as gunpowderIn the angles where the grass writing goes on,Rose-red in unexpected places like the pressureOf fingers on a book suddenly snapped shut.Those tangled versions of the truth areCombed out, the snarls ripped outAnd spread around. Behind the maskIs still a continental appreciationOf what is fine, rarely appears and when it does is alreadyDying on the breeze that brought it to the thresholdOf speech. The story worn out from tellingAll diaries are alike, clear and cold, withThe outloo...
More About: Words , John Ashbery , A Man

John Ashbery -Forties flick-
2006-05-06 04:54:00
Forties flickJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )The shadow of the Venetian blind on the painted wall,Shadows of the snake-plant and cacti, the plaster animals,Focus the tragic melancholy of the bright stareInto nowhere, a hole like the black holes in space.In bra and panties she sidles to the window:Zip! Up with the blind. A fragile street scene offers itself,With wafer-thin pedestrians who know where they are going.The blind comes down slowly, the slats are slowly tilted up.Why must it always end this way?A dais with woman reading, with the ruckus of her hairAnd all that is unsaid about her pulling us back to her, with herInto the silence that night alone can?t explain.Silence of the library, of the telephone with its pad,But we didn?t have to reinvent these either:They had gone away into the plot of a story,The ?art? part?knowing what important details to leave outAnd the way character is developed. Things too realTo be of much concern, hence artificial, yet now all over the page,The indo...
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John Ashbery -As one put drunk into the packet-boat-
2006-05-06 04:46:00
As one put drunk into the packet-boatJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.Elsewhere we are as sitting in a place where sunlightFilters down, a little at a time,Waiting for someone to come. Harsh words are spoken,As the Sun yellows the green of the maple tree...So this was ah, but obscurely1 felt the stirrings of new breath in the pagesWhich all winter long had smelled like an old catalogue.New sentences were starting up. But the summerWas well along, not yet past the mid-pointBut full and dark with the promise of that fullness,That time when one can no longer wander awayAnd even the least attentive fall silentTo watch the thing that is prepared to happen.A look of glass stops youAnd you walk on shaken: was I the perceived?Did they notice me, this time, as I am,Or is it postponed again? The childrenStill at their games, clouds that arise with a swiftImpatience in the afternoon sky, then dissipateAs limpid, dense twilight comes.Only is that t...
More About: Drunk , Boat , John Ashbery , Packet

John Ashbery -Soonest mended-
2006-05-05 17:46:00
Soonest mendedJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )Barely tolerated, living on the marginIn our technological society, we were always having to be rescuedOn the brink of destruction, like heroines in Orlando FuriosoBefore it was time to start all over again.There would be thunder in the bushes, a rustling of coils,And Angelica, in the Ingres painting, was consideringThe colorful but small monster near her toe, as though wondering whether forgettingThe whole thing might not, in the end, be the only solution.And then there always came a time whenHappy Hooligan in his rusted green automobileCame plowing down the course, just to make sure everything was O.K.,Only by that time we were in another chapter and confusedAbout how to receive this latest piece of information.Was it information? Weren't we rather acting this outFor someone else's benefit, thoughts in a mindWith room enough and to spare for our little problems (so they began to seem),Our daily quandary about food and the rent and bills t...
More About: John Ashbery , Nest

John Ashbery -The grapevine-
2006-05-05 16:43:00
The grapevineJohn Ashbery (EEUU, 1927- )Of who we and all they areYou all now know. But you knowAfter they began to find us out we grewBefore they died thinking us the causesOf their acts. Now we'll not knowThe truth of some still at the piano, thoughThey often date from us, causingThese changes we think we are. We don't careThough, so tall up thereIn young air. But things get darker as we moveTo ask them: Whom must we get to knowTo die, so you live and we know?EscondrijoDe quienes nosotros y todos ellos somosUstedes todo ahora entienden. Pero ustedes entienden,Después de que ellos comenzaron a encontrarnosnosotros crecimosAntes de que murieran pensándonos las causasDe sus actos. Ahora nosotros no sabremosLa verdad de algún inmóvil en el piano, aunqueEllos con frecuencia parten de nosotros, causandoEstos cambios que nosotros pensamos que somos. No nos importa.Sin embargo, tan altos allá arriba.En aire joven. Pero las cosas se oscurecen mientras nos movemosPara preguntarles: ¿a qui...
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Djuna Barnes -Verse-
2006-04-25 03:38:00
VerseDjuna Barn es (1892-1982)Should any ask «what it is to be in loveWith one you cannot slough, she being young?»What should it be, we answer, who can proveThe falling of the milk-tooth on the tongue,Is autumn in the mouth enough.(¿The young?)VersoSi alguien pregunta «¿cómo es enamorarseDe una que no puedes desechar, al ser ella más joven?»Cómo debería ser, contestamos, quién puede probar queLa caída del diente de leche en la lengua,Es ya suficiente otoño en la boca.(¿Los jóvenes?)
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Djuna Barnes -Transfiguration-
2006-04-25 03:33:00
TransfigurationDjuna Barn es (1892-1982)The prophet digs with iron handsInto the shifting desert sands.The insect back to larva goes;Struck to seed the climbing rose.To Moses? empty gorge, like smokeRush inward all the words he spoke.The knife of Cain lifts from the thrust;Abel rises from the dust.Pilate cannot find his tongue;Bare the tree where Judas hung.Lucifer roars up from earth;Down falls Christ into his death.To Adam back the rib is plied,A creature weeps within his side.Eden?s reach is thick and greenThe forest blows, no beast is seen.The unchained sun, in raging thirst,Feeds the last day to the first.TransfiguraciónEl profeta cava con manos de hierroEn las inestables arenas del desierto.El insecto vuelve a su larva;Retorna a semilla la rosa trepadora.Como humo hasta la vacía garganta de Moisés,Irrumpen todas las palabras que dijo.El cuchillo de Caín retira la estocada;Abel se levanta del polvo.Pilatos no puede encontrar su lengua;Desnudo está el árbol del que Judas colgó.Lu...
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Djuna Barnes -Ah, my God!-
2006-04-25 03:27:00
Ah my God!Djuna Barn es (1892-1982)Ah my God, what is it that we love!This flesh laid on un like a wrinkled glove?Bones caught in haste from out some lustful bed,And for momentum, this a devil?s shove.What is it that hurriedly we kiss,This mouth that seeks our own, or still more thisSmall sorry eye within the cheated head,As if it mourned the something that we miss.This pale, this over eager listening earThe wretched mouth its soft lament to hear,To mark the noiseless and the anguished fallOf still one other warm misshapen tear.Short arms, and bruised feet long set apartTo walk with us forever from the start.Ah God, is this the reason that we loveBecause such things are death blows to the heart?¡Ay, Dios mío!¡Ay, Dios mío, qué es lo que amamos!¿Esta carne puesta en nosotros como un guante arrugado?Huesos tomados deprisa de alguna lujuriosa cama,Y por ímpetu, el empujón del diablo.Qué es lo que besamos con prisa,Esta boca que busca la nuestra, o aún más esePequeño ojo lastimoso en la ...
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Djuna Barnes -Twilight of the Illicit-
2006-04-25 03:17:00
Twilight of the IllicitDjuna Barn es (1892-1982)You, with your long black uddersAnd your calms,Your spotted linen and yourSlack?ning arms.With satiated fingers draggingat your palms.Your knees set far apart likeHeavy spheres;With discs upon your eyes likeHusks of tearsAnd great ghastly loops of goldSnared in your ears.Your dying hair hand-beaten?Round your head.Lips, long lengthened by wise wordsUnsaid.And in your living all grimacesOf the dead.One sees you sitting in the sunAsleep;With the sweeter gifts you hadAnd didn?t keep,One grieves that the altars ofYour vice lie deep.You, the twilight powder ofA fire-wet down;You, the massive mother ofIllicit spawn;While the others shrink in virtueYou have borne.We?ll see you staring in the sunA few more years,With discs upon your eyes likeHusks of tears;And great ghastly loops of goldSnared in your ears.Ocaso de lo ilícitoTú, con tus largas y vacías ubresY tu calma,Tu ropa blanca manchada y tusFláccidos brazos.Con dedos saciados arrastrándos...
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Djuna Barnes -The dreamer-
2006-04-25 03:10:00
The dreamerDjuna Barn es (1892-1982)The night comes down, in ever-darkening shapes that seem-To grope, with eerie fingers for the window ?the-To rest to sleep, enfolding me, as in a dreamFaith ?might I waken!And drips the rain with seeming sad, insistent beat.Shivering across the pane, drooping tear-wise,And softly patters by, like little fearing feet.Faith ?this weather!The feathery ash is fluttered; there upon the pane,The dying fire casts a flickering ghostly beam,Then closes in the night and gently falling rain.Faith ?what darkness!La soñadoraCae la noche, en oscurecidas formas que parecenTantear, con misteriosos dedos hacia la ventana -luego-Descansan en el dormir, envolviéndome, como en un sueñoFe mía -¡que yo pueda despertar!Y gotea la lluvia con el mismo triste, insistente ritmo.Temblando a través del vidrio, inclinándose lacrimosa,Y suave golpetea, como pequeños pies temerosos.Fe mía -¡qué tiempo este!El plumoso fresno aletea; allí sobre el vidrio,El fuego moribundo lanza un...
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William Blake -The Echoing Green-
2006-04-10 05:14:00
The Echoing Green William Blake (1757-1827)The sun does arise,And make happy the skies;The merry bells ringTo welcome the spring;The skylark and thrush,The birds of the bush,Sing louder aroundTo the bell's cheerful sound,While our sports shall be seenOn the Echoing Green.Old John with white hair,Does laugh away care,Sitting under the oak,Among the old folk.They laugh at our play,And soon they all say:"Such, such were the joysWhen we all, girls and boys,In our youth time were seenOn the Echoing Green."Till the little ones, weary,No more can be merry;The sun does descend,And our sports have an end.Round the laps of their mothersMany sisters and brother,Like birds in their nest,Are ready for rest,And sport no more seenOn the darkening Green.El Prado ResonanteSe eleva el soly los cielos se vuelven dichosos;resuenan alegres las campanascomo bienvenida para la primavera;la alondra y el zorzal,las aves de los arbustos,trinan estrepitosamenteante el sonido jovial de las campanas,mientras nu...
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William Blake -Ah Sunflower-
2006-04-10 05:11:00
Ah Sunflower William Blake (1757-1827)Ah Sunflower, weary of time,Who countest the steps of the sun;Seeking after that sweet golden climeWhere the traveller's journey is done;Where the Youth pined away with desire,And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,Arise from their graves, and aspireWhere my Sunflower wishes to go!¡Ah Girasol!¡Ah, girasol! Hastiado del tiempo,contaste las pisadas del Sol,y buscaste aquel clima dulce y doradodonde concluye el rumbo del viajero:allí donde la juventud ardiente de deseos,y donde la Virgen joven amortajada en nieve,se levantan de sus tumbas y anhelan irhacia donde mi girasol desea llegar.
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William Blake -The shepherd-
2006-04-10 05:07:00
The shepherdWilliam Blak e (1757-1827)How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot!From the morn to the evening he strays;He shall follow his sheep all the day,And his tongue shall be filled with praise.For he hears the lambs' innocent call,And he hears the ewes' tender reply;He is watchful while they are in peace,For they know when their shepherd is nigh.El pastor¡Qué dulce es la dulce fortuna del Pastor!Deambula desde el alba hasta el atardecer;debe seguir a su rebaño el día entero,y su lengua se embeberá con alabanzas.Pues oye el inocente llamado del borrego,y escucha la tierna respuesta de l a oveja;vigila mientras permanecen en calmapues saben cuándo está próximo su Pastor.
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William Blake -To Tirzah-
2006-04-10 05:04:00
To TirzahWilliam Blak e (1757-1827)Whate'er is Born of Mortal BirthMust be consumed with the EarthTo rise from Generation free:Then what have I to do with thee?The Sexes sprung from Shame & Pride,Blow'd in the morn, in evening died;But Mercy chang'd Death into Sleep;The Sexes rose to work & weep.Thou, Mother of my Mortal part,With cruelty didst mould my Heart,And with false self-deceiving tearsDidst bind my Nostrils, Eyes, & Ears:Didst close my Tongue in senseless clay,And me to Mortal Life betray.The Death of Jesus set me free:Then what have I to do with thee?A TirzahTodo lo Nacido de Origen Mortaldeberá consumirse con la Tierrapara elevarse libre de la Procreación:entonces, ¿qué tengo yo que ver contigo?Los Sexos brotaron de la Vergüenza y el Orgullo,resoplaron en la mañana; sucumbieron al atardecer,pero la Misericordia transformó a la Muerte en Sueño:los Sexos se irguieron para trabajar y padecer.Tú, Madre de mi parte Mortal,con crueldad modelaste mi corazón,y con lágrimas fals...
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William Blake -The voice of the ancient bard-
2006-04-10 05:01:00
The voice of the ancient bardWilliam Blake (1757-1827)Youth of delight, come hither,And see the opening morn,Image of truth new born.Doubt is fled, & clouds of reason,Dark disputes & artful teazing.Folly is an endless maze,Tangled roots perplex her ways.How many have fallen there!They stumble all night over bones of the dead,And feel they know not what but care,And wish to lead others, when they should be led.La voz del bardo ancianoJóvenes del deleite, disponeosa ver la mañana que despunta,imagen de la verdad recién nacida.Huyeron la duda, las nubes de la razón,las oscuras querellas y las bromas arteras.La locura es una confusión interminable,cuyas raíces enmarañadas complican sus senderos.¡Cuántos son los que allí cayeron!Tropiezan toda la noche con los huesos de los muertos.y sienten que no saben qué pero les importa,y a otros quieren guiar, cuando ellos precisan un guía.
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William Blake -The little girl found-
2006-04-10 04:44:00
The little girl foundWilliam Blake (1757-1827)All the night in woe,Lyca's parents go:Over vallies deep.While the desarts weep.Tired and woe-begone.Hoarse with making moan:Arm in arm seven days.They trac'd the desert ways.Seven nights they sleep.Among shadows deep:And dream they see their childStarvdd in desart wild.Pale thro' pathless waysThe fancied image strays.Famish'd, weeping, weakWith hollow piteous shriekRising from unrest,The trembling woman prest,With feet of weary woe;She could no further go.In his arms he bore.Her arm'd with sorrow sore:Till before their wayA couching lion lay.Turning back was vain,Soon his heavy mane.Bore them to the ground;Then he stalk'd around.Smelling to his prey,But their fears allay,When he licks their hands:And silent by them stands.They look upon his eyesFill'd with deep surprise:And wondering behold.A spirit arm'd in gold.On his head a crownOn his shoulders down,Flow'd his golden hair.Gone was all their care.Follow me he said,Weep not f...
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William Blake -The little boy found-
2006-04-10 04:41:00
The little boy found William Blak e (1757-1827)The little boy lost in the lonely fen,Led by the wandering light,Began to cry, but God, ever nigh,Appeared like his father, in white.He kissed the child, and by the hand led,And to his mother brought,Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,The little boy weeping sought.El niñito encontradoEl niñito perdido en el pantano solitario,guiado por la luz errante,empezó a llorar; pero Dios, siempre cercano,apareció como su padre, vestido de blanco.Besó al chiquillo y tomándole la manolo condujo hasta su madre,que pálida de pena, por el solitario valle,llorando a su hijito buscaba.
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William Blake -The little black boy-
2006-04-10 04:37:00
The little black boyWilliam Blak e (1757-1827)My mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but oh my soul is white!White as an angel is the English child,But I am black, as if bereaved of light.My mother taught me underneath a tree,And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap and kissed me,And, pointed to the east, began to say:'Look on the rising sun: there God does live,And gives His light, and gives His heat away,And flowers and trees and beasts and men receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday.'And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of loveAnd these black bodies and this sunburnt faceIs but a cloud, and like a shady grove.'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,Saying, 'Come out from the grove, my love and careAnd round my golden tent like lambs rejoice','Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;And thus I say to little English boy.When I from black an...
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William Blake -The human abstract-
2006-04-10 04:33:00
The human abstractWilliam Blake (1757-1827)Pity would be no moreIf we did not make somebody Poor;And Mercy no more could beIf all were as happy as we.And mutual fear brings peace,Till the selfish loves increase:Then Cruelty knits a snare,And spreads his baits with care.He sits down with holy fears,And waters the grounds with tears;Then Humility takes its rootUnderneath his foot.Soon spreads the dismal shadeOf Mystery over his head;And the Catterpiller and FlyFeed on the Mystery.And it bears the fruit of Deceit,Ruddy and sweet to eat;And the Raven his nest has madeIn its thickest shade.The Gods of the earth and seaSought thro' Nature to find this Tree;But their search was all in vain:There grows one in the Human Brain.Resumen humanoNo existiría la Piedadsi no hiciéramos pobre a alguien;y no haría falta la Misericordiasi todos fuesen tan dichosos como nosotros.Y el miedo recíproco trae paz,hasta que el amor egoísta se incrementa:entonces la Crueldad arma su trampay esparce sus cebos ...
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