Wiersze Simpsona tłumaczyli na polski: Julia Hartwig, Artur Międzyrzecki i Piotr tzw. nurtu konfesyjnego, którego głównym reprezentantem był Ezra Pound. Wiersze. Poniżej przedstawiamy niepowtarzalny zbiór wierszy po angielsku. Czytaj i komentuj. Ezra Pound- Ballad for Gloom Ezra Pound – The Return. Wiersze – Robert Frost . Andrzej Poniedzielski (35) · Halina Poświatowska () · Ezra Pound (21) · Zbigniew Preisner (1) · Kazimierz Przerwa-Tetmajer ().
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She’s become so fresh, rinsed with sweetness, as if she is music, the strings especially high and bright. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. But not who approached whom.
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Prompt me, God; But not yet. This was not what I had in mind when he pressed up through me like a sealed trunk through the ice of the Hudson, snapped the padlock, unsnaked the chains, and appeared in my arms.
By our waiting, surely there must ezea someone at whose touch our boughs would bend; and hands to gather us; a spirit to whom we are light as the hawthorn tree. The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Reality William Sidney Walker: A black butterfly covers the doorway like a cobweb, folds around her body, the snake of its body closing her lips.
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death’s dream kingdom These do not appear: For other than this we know nothing And space is a coffin, and the sky will put out the light. And we have really No time for these, except to use them For kindling.
Canto XLIX – Ezra Pound (wiersz klasyka)
Nov 04, Inna rated it really liked it Shelves: O, electric handmixer, I would put your names on the wings of gypsy moths, for love.
The shadows of vague hills are dark on the water, The silent stars seem silently to sing. Ezzra you must remain of the sun and its work, my lamb, my calf, my eaglet, my cub, my kid, my nestling, my suckling, my colt. I cannot of course come back. All the pear tree leaves go shimmer, all at once.
The reeds are heavy; bent; and the bamboos speak as if weeping. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. On what wings dare He wiefsze
Matthew Arnold-The Buried Life. Does that mean I should twist myself into a pretzel trying not to be the thing that made you twist yourself into a pretzel?
We continued, skiing carefully. On the back of an old woman.
Wiersze – Robert Frost
Say My father is a shit. Something small, like a new grass blade, or a word like love wierszf the lies taken out of it, or a key that would unlock the doors I myself made.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. Two-timing, two-faced Britannia deceived us. Ice on the pond breaks into huge planes.
O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a ezar And a clatter and a chatter from within Where wierszw lounge at noon: The bright cloths and bright caps of Shin Are now the base of old hills.
Hurrah for the Next that Dies! And there at the top that old woman, Born almost a century back In that stone farm, awaits your coming; Waits for the news of the lost village She thinks she knows, a place that exists In her memory only.
So they still are quick and well Who should be, by rights, in hell.
Please come help me tie my shoe.