"arve" poems
Not from the sands or cloven rocks,
Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;
Nor earth, within her ***** locks
Thy dark unfathomed wells below.
Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream
Begins to move and murmur first
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam,
Or rain-storms on the glacier burst.
Born where the thunder and the blast,
And morning's earliest light are born,
Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast,
By these low homes, as if in scorn:
Yet humbler springs yield purer waves;
And brighter, glassier streams than thine,
Sent up from earth's unlighted caves,
With heaven's own beam and image shine.
Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees;
Warm rays on cottage roofs are here,
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees--
Here linger till thy waves are clear.
Thou heedest not--thou hastest on;
From steep to steep thy torrent falls,
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone,
It rests beneath Geneva's walls.
Rush on--but were there one with me
That loved me, I would light my hearth
Here, where with God's own majesty
Are touched the features of the earth.
By these old peaks, white, high, and vast,
Still rising as the tempests beat,
Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last,
Among the blossoms at their feet.
1.4k
beautiful beast,
i can't let you free;
I have to keep you
leashed to my brain.
it's not a good idea
for you to be running loose.
you would be perceived
as dangerous.
"hide your children. hide!"
don't struggle
against the choke collar.
you won't starve.
you won't starve.
you won't starve.
everything i want to say gets l ost in the fray.
don't struggle
against the choke c ollar.
because it's choking me.
stay clos e by, keep me company.
there Is plenty of food out there.
there is plenty of fo od.
there is plenty of fooD somewhere.
i t hi nk
you're too scary to catch your quarry.
i have to ke ep you here. leashed.
all you want is out of reach anyway, mutt.
in the trees, in the clou ds
on the map, in my hea d
in bits of pap er, in bites of met alloids.
don't struggle you keep me alive.
against th e choke co llar.
y ou won't st arve.
just feed on me.
j ust feed on m
e ju st
fE edo nme. b ea
uti f u l b ea
be st.
a
u
ti
ful
be
a
****
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Un oiseau siffle dans les branches
Et sautille *** plein d'espoir,
Sur les herbes, de givre blanches,
En bottes jaunes, en frac noir.
C'est un merle, chanteur crédule,
Ignorant du calendrier,
Qui rêve soleil, et module
L'hymne d'avril en février.
Pourtant il vente, il pleut à verse ;
L'Arve jaunit le Rhône bleu,
Et le salon, tendu de perse,
Tient tous ses hôtes près du feu.
Les monts sur l'épaule ont l'hermine,
Comme des magistrats siégeant.
Leur blanc tribunal examine
Un cas d'hiver se prolongeant.
Lustrant son aile qu'il essuie,
L'oiseau persiste en sa chanson,
Malgré neige, brouillard et pluie,
Il croit à la jeune saison.
Il gronde l'aube paresseuse
De rester au lit si longtemps
Et, gourmandant la fleur frileuse,
Met en demeure le printemps.
Il voit le jour derrière l'ombre,
Tel un croyant, dans le saint lieu,
L'autel désert, sous la nef sombre,
Avec sa foi voit toujours Dieu.
A la nature il se confie,
Car son instinct pressent la loi.
Qui rit de ta philosophie,
Beau merle, est moins sage que toi !
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