Friday, 31 July 2015

I watch and dote upon the silver lakes

At dawn near the lake this morning...

Back to the road, and I crossed again 
Over the miles of the saltbush plain -- 
The shining plain that is said to be 
The dried-up bed of an inland sea.

Andrew Barton Paterson, In the Droving Days


Where the air so dry and so clear and bright 
Refracts the sun with a wondrous light, 
And out in the dim horizon makes 
The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes.

Andrew Barton Paterson, In the Droving Days


...the crystal heavens darken,
I watch and dote upon the silver lakes
Pictur'd in western cloudiness...

John Keats, Endymion: Book I

Saturday, 25 July 2015

Les esprits des fleurs



Voyez-vous de l'or de ces urnes
S'échapper ces esprits des fleurs,
Tout trempés de parfums nocturnes,
Tout vêtus de fraîches couleurs ?

Ce ne sont pas de vains fantômes
Créés par un art décevant,
Pour donner un corps aux arômes
Que nos gazons livrent au vent.

Non : chaque atome de matière
Par un esprit est habité ;
Tout sent, et la nature entière
N'est que douleur et volupté !

Chaque rayon d'humide flamme
Qui jaillit de vos yeux si doux ;
Chaque soupir qui de mon âme
S'élance et palpite vers vous ;

Chaque parole réprimée
Qui meurt sur mes lèvres de feu,
N'osant même à la fleur aimée
D'un nom chéri livrer l'aveu ;

Ces songes que la nuit fait naître
Comme pour nous venger du jour,
Tout prend un corps, une âme, un être,
Visibles, mais au seul amour !

Cet ange flottant des prairies,
Pâle et penché comme ses lis,
C'est une de mes rêveries
Restée aux fleurs que je cueillis.

Et sur ses ailes renversées
Celui qui jouit d'expirer,
Ce n'est qu'une de mes pensées
Que vos lèvres vont respirer.


Alphonse de Lamartine, Les esprits des fleurs

Monday, 20 July 2015

Song For The Rain


Hidden, oh hidden
in the high fog
the house we live in,
beneath the magnetic rock,
rain-, rainbow-ridden,
where blood-black
bromelias, lichens,
owls, and the lint
of the waterfalls cling,
familiar, unbidden.

In a dim age
of water
the brook sings loud
from a rib cage
of giant fern; vapor
climbs up the thick growth
effortlessly, turns back,
holding them both,
house and rock,
in a private cloud.

Elizabeth Bishop, Song For The Rainy Season

Sunday, 19 July 2015

From the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings


I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

William Butler Yeats, The Lake Isle Of Innisfree


I say My Innisfree...

Friday, 17 July 2015

Still Another Day

“The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net.
They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn't divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.” 

― Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day


Friday, 3 July 2015

Saint Lawrence River | Fleuve Saint-Laurent


I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Langston Hughes