Section: «Poems»
Verse (ancient Greek ὁ στίχος — row, structure), a term in versification used in several meanings:
artistic speech organized by division into rhythmically commensurate segments; poetry in the narrow sense; in particular, it implies the properties of versification of a particular tradition ("antique verse", "Akhmatova's verse", etc.);
a line of poetic text organized according to a certain rhythmic pattern ("My uncle of the most honest rules").
Cosmogony (& translation)
Neither darkness nor chaos. the darknessrequires eyes that see, like soundand silence require hearing,and the mirror, the form that populates..
© Jorge Luis Borges
Simplicity
It opens, the gate to the gardenwith the docility of a pagethat frequent devotion questionsand inside, my gazehas no need to fix on objectsthat..
© Jorge Luis Borges
Browning Decides To Be A Poet
In these red labyrinths of LondonI find that I have chosenthe strangest of all callings,save that, in its way, any calling is strange.Like the..
© Jorge Luis Borges
The Other Tiger
A tiger comes to mind. The twilight hereExalts the vast and busy LibraryAnd seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom;Innocent, ruthless..
© Jorge Luis Borges
Susana Soca
With lingering love she gazed at the dispersedColors of dusk. It pleased her utterlyTo lose herself in the complex melodyOr in the cunous life to be..
© Jorge Luis Borges
That One
Oh days devoted to the useless burdenof putting out of mind the biographyof a minor poet of the Southem Hemisphere,to whom the fates or perhaps the..
© Jorge Luis Borges
To a Cat
Mirrors are not more silentnor the creeping dawn more secretive;in the moonlight, you are that pantherwe catch sight of from afar.By the inexplicable..
© Jorge Luis Borges
History Of The Night
Throughout the course of the generationsmen constructed the night.At first she was blindness;thorns raking bare feet,fear of wolves.We shall never..
© Jorge Luis Borges
We Are The Time. We Are The Famous
We are the time. We are the famousmetaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.We are the water, not the hard diamond,the one that is lost, not the one that..
© Jorge Luis Borges
The instant
Where will be the centuries, where the dreamof swords that the Tartars dreamed of,where the strong walls that they leveled,where the Tree of Adam and..
© Jorge Luis Borges
Remorse For Any Death
Free of memory and of hope,limitless, abstract, almost future,the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.Like the God of the mystics,of Whom..
© Jorge Luis Borges
The Chantry Of The Cherubim
O CHANTRY of the Cherubim,Down-looking on the stream!Beneath thy boughs the day grows dim;Through windows comes the gleam;A thousand raptures fill..
© Francis William Bourdillon
The Piper
The dews were on the hedges,The mist was on the mead,When down among the sedgesI wrought my pipe of reed.I blew my pipe with power.Men only cursed..
© Francis William Bourdillon
Sonnet Ii
As strong, as deep, as wide as is the sea,Though by the wind made restless as the wind,By billows fretted and by rocks confined,So strong, so deep..
© Francis William Bourdillon
Excelsior
If one should strive to reach a star,He would not build a ladder high,Seek foot by foot to climb so far,And step by step ascend the sky;But he would..
© Francis William Bourdillon
Two Robbers
When Death from some fair faceIs stealing life away,All weep, save she, the graceThat earth shall lose today.When Time from some fair faceSteals..
© Francis William Bourdillon
Only To Live
Only to live! There nothing is more sweet.Only to live! There nothing is more bitter.Only to live, when flowers are at the feetAnd overhead the happy..
© Francis William Bourdillon
Sonnet I
Oft had I felt, like pure Endymion,Such love for the sweet moon, that I had wellBelieved her able on earth to love and dwellWith whatso man she set..
© Francis William Bourdillon
Christmas Roses
White-faced Winter Roses,O'er the grave I plant youWhere the dead reposes,That a soul may haunt you,And your ghostly whitenessIn the Winter..
© Francis William Bourdillon
The Regions Of Love
Who knows the deeps, where the water sleepsLeagues from the light away?Who knows the heights, where myriad lightsFill heaven with endless day?The..
© Francis William Bourdillon
Drought
For rain, for rain the parched lands cry,Reproachful to the cloudless sky.The hot white fields in light are blinking,The rivers in their beds are..
© Francis William Bourdillon
The Call
Hark! 'tis the rush of the horses,The crash of the galloping gun!The stars are out of their courses;The hour of Doom has begun.Leap from thy..
© Francis William Bourdillon
The Home Of My Heart
Not here in the populous town,In the playhouse or mart,Not here in the ways gray and brown,Bnt afar on the green-swelling down,Is the home of my..
© Francis William Bourdillon
The Acorn
An acorn swungOn an oak-tree bough;So long it had hung,It would fain fall nowTo the kindly earth,That its germ withinMight burst into birth,And its..
© Francis William Bourdillon
The Heart Cry
She turned the page of wounds and deathWith trembling fingers. In a breathThe gladness of her life becameNaught but a memory and a name.Farewell!..
© Francis William Bourdillon