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Poesie : in lingua inglese poesie > in lingua inglese

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Indian Serenade

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me—who knows how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream—
And the champak's odours [pine]
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must on thine,
O belovèd as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Touch

My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further nudity
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body

Octavio Paz

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The life that tied too tight escapes

The life that tied too tight escapes
Will ever after run
With a prudential look behind
And spectres of the Rein -
The Horse that scents the living Grass
And sees the Pastures smile
Will be retaken with a shot
If he is a caught at all -

Emily Dickinson

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Never seek to tell thy love...

Never seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears-
Ah, she doth depart.

Soon as she was gone from me
A traveller came by;
Silently, invisibly-
O, was no deny.

William Blake

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Sonnet - To science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

Edgar Allan Poe

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