"larve" poems - Hello Poetry

Space and dread and the dark-- Over a livid stretch of sky Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train Of huge, primeval presences Stooping beneath the weight Of some enormous, rudimentary grief; While in the haunting loneliness The far sea waits and wanders with a sound As of the trailing skirts of Destiny, Passing unseen To some immitigable end With her grey henchman, Death. What larve, what spectre is this Thrilling the wilderness to life As with the ****** shape of Fear? What but a desperate sense, A strong foreboding of those dim Interminable continents, forlorn And many-silenced, in a dusk Inviolable utterly, and dead As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes In hugger-mugger through eternity? Life--life--let there be life! Better a thousand times the roaring hours When wave and wind, Like the Arch-Murderer in flight From the Avenger at his heel, Storm through the desolate fastnesses And wild waste places of the world! Life--give me life until the end, That at the very top of being, The battle-spirit shouting in my blood, Out of the reddest hell of the fight I may be snatched and flung Into the everlasting lull, The immortal, incommunicable dream.

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William Ernest Henley

Space And Dread And The Dark

Space and dread and the dark-- Over a livid stretch of sky Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train Of huge, primeval presences Stooping beneath the weight Of some enormous, rudimentary grief; While in the haunting loneliness The far sea waits and wanders with a sound As of the trailing skirts of Destiny, Passing unseen To some immitigable end With her grey henchman, Death. What larve, what spectre is this Thrilling the wilderness to life As with the ****** shape of Fear? What but a desperate sense, A strong foreboding of those dim Interminable continents, forlorn And many-silenced, in a dusk Inviolable utterly, and dead As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes In hugger-mugger through eternity? Life--life--let there be life! Better a thousand times the roaring hours When wave and wind, Like the Arch-Murderer in flight From the Avenger at his heel, Storm through the desolate fastnesses And wild waste places of the world! Life--give me life until the end, That at the very top of being, The battle-spirit shouting in my blood, Out of the reddest hell of the fight I may be snatched and flung Into the everlasting lull, The immortal, incommunicable dream.

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Can we believe -- by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street, each patterned alike, no grace to lighten a single house of the hundred crowded into one garden-space. Crowded -- can we believe, not in utter disgust, in ironical play -- but the maker of cities grew faint with the beauty of temple and space before temple, arch upon perfect arch, of pillars and corridors that led out to strange court-yards and porches where sun-light stamped hyacinth-shadows black on the pavement. That the maker of cities grew faint with the splendour of palaces, paused while the incense-flowers from the incense-trees dropped on the marble-walk, thought anew, fashioned this -- street after street alike. For alas, he had crowded the city so full that men could not grasp beauty, beauty was over them, through them, about them, no crevice unpacked with the honey, rare, measureless. So he built a new city, ah can we believe, not ironically but for new splendour constructed new people to lift through slow growth to a beauty unrivalled yet -- and created new cells, hideous first, hideous now -- spread larve across them, not honey but seething life. And in these dark cells, packed street after street, souls live, hideous yet -- O disfigured, defaced, with no trace of the beauty men once held so light. Can we think a few old cells were left -- we are left -- grains of honey, old dust of stray pollen dull on our torn wings, we are left to recall the old streets? Is our task the less sweet that the larve still sleep in their cells? Or crawl out to attack our frail strength: You are useless. We live. We await great events. We are spread through this earth. We protect our strong race. You are useless. Your cell takes the place of our young future strength. Though they sleep or wake to torment and wish to displace our old cells -- thin rare gold -- that their larve grow fat -- is our task the less sweet? Though we wander about, find no honey of flowers in this waste, is our task the less sweet -- who recall the old splendour, await the new beauty of cities? The city is peopled with spirits, not ghosts, O my love: Though they crowded between and usurped the kiss of my mouth their breath was your gift, their beauty, your life.

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2.9k

Hilda Doolittle

Cities

Can we believe -- by an effort comfort our hearts: it is not waste all this, not placed here in disgust, street after street, each patterned alike, no grace to lighten a single house of the hundred crowded into one garden-space. Crowded -- can we believe, not in utter disgust, in ironical play -- but the maker of cities grew faint with the beauty of temple and space before temple, arch upon perfect arch, of pillars and corridors that led out to strange court-yards and porches where sun-light stamped hyacinth-shadows black on the pavement. That the maker of cities grew faint with the splendour of palaces, paused while the incense-flowers from the incense-trees dropped on the marble-walk, thought anew, fashioned this -- street after street alike. For alas, he had crowded the city so full that men could not grasp beauty, beauty was over them, through them, about them, no crevice unpacked with the honey, rare, measureless. So he built a new city, ah can we believe, not ironically but for new splendour constructed new people to lift through slow growth to a beauty unrivalled yet -- and created new cells, hideous first, hideous now -- spread larve across them, not honey but seething life. And in these dark cells, packed street after street, souls live, hideous yet -- O disfigured, defaced, with no trace of the beauty men once held so light. Can we think a few old cells were left -- we are left -- grains of honey, old dust of stray pollen dull on our torn wings, we are left to recall the old streets? Is our task the less sweet that the larve still sleep in their cells? Or crawl out to attack our frail strength: You are useless. We live. We await great events. We are spread through this earth. We protect our strong race. You are useless. Your cell takes the place of our young future strength. Though they sleep or wake to torment and wish to displace our old cells -- thin rare gold -- that their larve grow fat -- is our task the less sweet? Though we wander about, find no honey of flowers in this waste, is our task the less sweet -- who recall the old splendour, await the new beauty of cities? The city is peopled with spirits, not ghosts, O my love: Though they crowded between and usurped the kiss of my mouth their breath was your gift, their beauty, your life.

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latterligt, let leende, lur mig legende larm lukkede øjne lodret, levende løgner!, lup larve, lukket luft, luk nu lolland? lutlandia lovgivning, lærkesang levning; lev

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Sep 7, 2015

Sep 7, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC

en-anonym-skikkelse

en Leg

latterligt, let leende, lur mig legende larm lukkede øjne lodret, levende løgner!, lup larve, lukket luft, luk nu lolland? lutlandia lovgivning, lærkesang levning; lev

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Viene il freddo. Giri per dirlo tu, sgricciolo, intorno le siepi; e sentire fai nel tuo zirlo lo strido di gelo che crepi. Il tuo trillo sembra la brina che sgrigiola, il vetro che incrina... trr trr trr terit tirit... Viene il verno. Nella tua voce c'è il verno tutt'arido e tecco. Tu somigli un guscio di noce, che ruzzola con rumor secco. T'ha insegnato il breve tuo trillo con l'elitre tremule il grillo... trr trr trr terit tirit... Nel tuo verso suona scrio scrio, con piccoli crepiti e stiocchi, il segreto scricchiolettio di quella catasta di ciocchi. Uno scricchiolettio ti parve d'udirvi cercando le larve... trr trr trr terit tirit... Tutto, intorno, screpola rotto. Tu frulli ad un tetto, ad un vetro. Così rompere odi lì sotto, così screpolare lì dietro. Oh! lì dentro vedi una vecchia che fiacca la stipa e la grecchia... trr trr trr terit tirit... Vedi il lume, vedi la vampa. Tu frulli dal vetro alla fratta. Ecco un tizzo soffia, una stiampa già croscia, una scorza già scatta. Ecco nella grigia casetta l'allegra fiammata scoppietta... trr trr trr terit tirit... Fuori, in terra, frusciano foglie cadute. Nell'Alpe lontana ce n'è un mucchio grande che accoglie la verde tua palla di lana. Nido verde tra foglie morte, che fanno, ad un soffio più forte... trr trr trr terit tirit...

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604

Giovanni Pascoli

L'uccellino del freddo

Viene il freddo. Giri per dirlo tu, sgricciolo, intorno le siepi; e sentire fai nel tuo zirlo lo strido di gelo che crepi. Il tuo trillo sembra la brina che sgrigiola, il vetro che incrina... trr trr trr terit tirit... Viene il verno. Nella tua voce c'è il verno tutt'arido e tecco. Tu somigli un guscio di noce, che ruzzola con rumor secco. T'ha insegnato il breve tuo trillo con l'elitre tremule il grillo... trr trr trr terit tirit... Nel tuo verso suona scrio scrio, con piccoli crepiti e stiocchi, il segreto scricchiolettio di quella catasta di ciocchi. Uno scricchiolettio ti parve d'udirvi cercando le larve... trr trr trr terit tirit... Tutto, intorno, screpola rotto. Tu frulli ad un tetto, ad un vetro. Così rompere odi lì sotto, così screpolare lì dietro. Oh! lì dentro vedi una vecchia che fiacca la stipa e la grecchia... trr trr trr terit tirit... Vedi il lume, vedi la vampa. Tu frulli dal vetro alla fratta. Ecco un tizzo soffia, una stiampa già croscia, una scorza già scatta. Ecco nella grigia casetta l'allegra fiammata scoppietta... trr trr trr terit tirit... Fuori, in terra, frusciano foglie cadute. Nell'Alpe lontana ce n'è un mucchio grande che accoglie la verde tua palla di lana. Nido verde tra foglie morte, che fanno, ad un soffio più forte... trr trr trr terit tirit...

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