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Poesie : in lingua inglese poesie > in lingua inglese

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What if I say I shall not wait!

What if I say I shall not wait!
What if I burst the fleshly Gate
And pass escaped to thee!

What if I file this Mortal off
See where it hurt me That's enough
And wade in Liberty!

They cannot take me any more!
Dungeons can call and Guns implore
Unmeaning now to me

As laughter was an hour ago
Or Laces or a Travelling Show
Or who died yesterday!

Emily Dickinson

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My nosegays are for Captives

My nosegays are for Captives
Dim expectant eyes,
Fingers denied the plucking,
Patient till Paradise.

To such, if they should whisper
Of morning and the moor,
They bear no other errand,
And I, no other prayer.

Emily Dickinson

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Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

>He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love last for ever: I was wrong.

>The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocaen and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Wystan Hugh Auden

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The forward violet thus did I chide (Sonnet 99)

The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemnèd for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;
the roses fearfully on thorns did stand.
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker ate him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

William Shakespeare

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Love's passion

...My brain is wild, my breath comes quick -
The blood is listening in my frame
And throning shadows, fast and thick
Fall on my overflowning eyes;
My heart is quivering like a flame;
As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies,
I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies...
(trad. di Shelley)

Saffo

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