All Poems
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The Potato Harvest
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that flyIn from the wide flats where the spent tides mournTo yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn; A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by A pond and cattle; from the homestead nighThe long deep summonings of the supper horn
O Earth, Sufficing All our Needs
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
O earth, sufficing all our needs, O youWith room for body and for spirit too, How patient while your children vex their soulsDevising alien heavens beyond your blue!
Monition
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
A faint wind, blowing from World's End, Made strange the city street.A strange sound mingled in the fall Of the familiar feet.
In an Old Barn
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
Tons upon tons the brown-green fragrant hay O'erbrims the mows beyond the time-warped eaves, Up to the rafters where the spider weaves,Though few flies wander his secluded way
The Iceberg
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
I was spawned from the glacier,A thousand miles due northBeyond Cape Chidley;And the spawning,When my vast, wallowing bulk went under,Emerged and heaved aloft,Shaking down cataracts from its rocking sides,With mountainous surge and thunderOutraged the silence of the Arctic sea
The Herring Weir
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
Back to the green deeps of the outer bay The red and amber currents glide and cringe, Diminishing behind a luminous fringeOf cream-white surf and wandering wraiths of spray
The Great and Little Weavers
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
The great and the little weavers,They neither rest nor sleep.They work in the height and the glory,They toil in the dark and the deep.
The Frosted Pane
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
One night came Winter noiselessly, and leaned Against my window-pane.In the deep stillness of his heart convened The ghosts of all his slain.
An Epitaph for a Husbandman
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
He who would start and rise Before the crowing cocks, --No more he lifts his eyes, Whoever knocks.
The Departing of Gluskâp
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
It is so long ago; and men well-nighForget what gladness was, and how the earthGave corn in plenty, and the rivers fish,And the woods meat, before he went away.His going was on this wise.
The Cow Pasture
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
I see the harsh, wind-ridden, eastward hill, By the red cattle pastured, blanched with dew; The small, mossed hillocks where the clay gets through;The grey webs woven on milkweed tops at will
Canada
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
O Child of Nations, giant-limbed, Who stand'st among the nations nowUnheeded, unadored, unhymned, With unanointed brow, --
Ave! (An Ode for the Shelley Centenary, 1892)
© Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
I Wide marshes ever washed in clearest air,Whether beneath the sole and spectral star The dear severity of dawn you wear,Or whether in the joy of ample day And speechless ecstasy of growing JuneYou lie and dream the long blue hours away Till nightfall comes too soon,Or whether, naked to the unstarred night,You strike with wondering awe my inward sight, --
II Go forth to you with longing, though the yearsThat turn not back like your returning streams And fain would mist the memory with tears,Though the inexorable years deny My feet the fellowship of your deep grass,O'er which, as o'er another, tenderer sky, Cloud phantoms drift and pass, --You know my confident love, since first, a child,Amid your wastes of green I wandered wild
Voyelles
© Arthur Rimbaud
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles,Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes:A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantesQui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles,
Les Effarés
© Arthur Rimbaud
Noirs dans la neige et dans la brume,Au grand soupirail qui s'allume, Leurs culs en rond,
Le Dormeur du val
© Arthur Rimbaud
C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivièreAccrochant follement aux herbes des haillonsD'argent; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,Luit: c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons
White Flock
© Anna Akhmatova
Copyright Anna Akhmatova
Copyright English translation by Ilya Shambat (ilya_shambat@yahoo.com)
Origin: http://www.geocities.com/ilya_shambat/akhmatova.html
