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Poesie : in lingua inglese poesie > in lingua inglese

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George Gray

I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me —
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire —
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

Edgar Lee Masters

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Some things that fly there be

Some things that fly there be
Birds Hours the Bumblebee
Of these no Elegy.

Some things that stay there be
Grief Hills Eternity
Nor this behooveth me.

There are that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the Riddle lies!

Emily Dickinson

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Let me escape

Let me escape,
Be free, (wind for my tree and water for my flowers ),
Live self for self,
And drown the gods in me,
Or crush their viper heads beneath my foot.
No space, no space, you say,
But you'll not keep me in
Although your cage is strong.
My strength shall sap your own;
I'll cut through your dark cloud
To see the sun myself,
Pale and decayed, an ugly growth.

Dylan Thomas

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Heart! We will forget him!

Heart! We will forget him!
You and I tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave
I will forget the light!

When you have done, pray tell me
That I may straight begin!
Haste! lest while you're lagging
I remember him!

Emily Dickinson

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To Earthward

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of - was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Down hill at dusk?

I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they're gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.

I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,

The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

Robert Frost

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