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Författare
Dan AnderssonThomas Lovell Beddoes
Bo Bergman
Aphra Behn
Karin Boye
Emily Brontë
Lord Byron
Lewis Carroll
Emily Dickinson
T.S.Eliot
Nils Ferlin
Hjalmar Gullberg
Tove Jansson
Eeva Kilpi
Pär Lagerkvist
Ebba Lindqvist
Lu Yu
Lyriken från Pst
Harriet Löwenhjelm
Archibald MacLeish
Marge Piercy
Edgar Allen Poe
Christina Georgina Rossetti
Johan Ludvig Runeberg
William Shakespeare
Percy Bysshe Shelley
August Strindberg
Edit Södergran
Wallace Stevens
Lord Tennyson
Oscar Wilde
W.B. Yeats
Dikter
An Irish Airman Forsees His DeathArs Poetica
A widow bird sate mourning
Blott du mitt bröst är kvar
Could Love Forever
Chrysaetos
Dagen svalnar...
Den enda stunden
Det är vackrast när det skymmer
Dream-Pedlary
Du är min renaste tröst
Du är visst lycklig för ingenting
En önskan
Eyes that I saw last in tears
Fare Thee Well
Fåfäng önskan
Glömma, glömma
Gåva
Han är borta, kvar är natten
Har jag blott fusidorer och fosor
Hur kan jag säga...
If grief for grief can touch thee
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Jag har sålt min smärta
Jag vill möta...
Kyssande vind
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Love in fantastic triumph sat
Lyckokatt
Lyft dig på blodiga vingar
Melodi
Misans klagolåt
Molnen över oss kommer och går
Mot alla fyra vindar
Music when soft voices die
My Life Closed Twice
När solen skiner
Qvellens guldmoln
Requiescat
Sakna och sukta
Som nu
Sorg och glädje
Stanzas to Augusta
Stjärnorna kvittar det lika
Säg till om jag stör
Tag mig. - Håll mig. - Smek mig sakta
The First Day
The Friend
The Hollow Men
The Lady of Shalott
The Night Is Darkening
The Raven
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird
Unlearning to Not Speak
Vem rider så fort
When I am dead my dearest
When We Two Parted
Ångest
Är jag intill döden trött
Wallace Stevens 1879-1955
Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a womanAre one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long windowWith barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,Why do you imagine golden birds
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accentsAnd lurid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of site,It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirdsFlying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut,In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar limbs.
Emily Brontë 1818-1848
The Night Is Darkening
The night is darkening round me,The wild winds coldly blow ;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow ;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below ;
But nothing drear can move me :
I will not, cannot go.
If grief for grief can touch thee
If grief for grief can touch thee,If answering woe for woe,
If any truth can melt thee
Come to me now!
I cannot be more lonely,
More drear I cannot be!
My worn heart beats so wildly
'Twill break for thee -
And when the world despises -
When Heaven repels my prayer -
Will not mine angel comfort?
Mine idol hear?
Yes, by the tears I'm poured,
By all my hours of pain
O I shall surely win thee,
Beloved, again!
William Butler Yeats 1865-1939
An Irish Airman Forsees His Death
I know that I shall meet my fateSomewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tummult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Christina Georgina Rossetti, 1830-1894
Song
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet:
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
The First Day
I wish I could remember the first day,First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or Winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand - Did one but know!
Edith Södergran 1892-1923
Lyckokatt
Jag har en lyckokatt i famnen
den spinner lyckotråd
Lyckokatt, lyckokatt,
skaffa mig tre ting:
skaffa mig en gyllne ring,
som säger mig att jag är lycklig;
skaffa mig en spegel,
som säger mig att jag är skön;
skaffa mig en solfjäder,
som fläktar bort mina påhängsna tankar.
Lyckokatt, lyckokatt,
spinn mig ännu litet om min framtid!
Dagen svalnar...
I
Dagen svalnar mot kvällen...Drick värmen ur min hand,
min hand har samma blod som våren.
Tag min hand, tag min vita arm,
tag mina smala axlars längtan...
Det vore underligt att känna,
en enda natt, en natt som denna,
ditt tunga huvud mot mitt bröst.
II
Du kastade din kärleks röda rosi mitt vita sköte -
jag håller fast i mina heta händer
din kärleks röda ros som vissnar snart...
O du härskare med kalla ögon,
jag tar emot den krona du räcker mig,
som böjer ned mitt huvud mot mitt hjärta
III
Jag såg min herre för första gången i dag,darrande kände jag genast igen honom.
Nu känner jag ren hans tunga hand på min lätta arm..
Var är mitt klingande jungfruskratt,
min kvinnofrihet med högburet huvud?
Nu känner jag ren hans fasta grepp om min skälvande kropp,
nu hör jag verklighetens hårda klang
mot mina sköra, sköra drömmar.
IV
Du sökte en blommaoch fann en frukt.
Du sökte en källa
och fann ett hav.
Du sökte en kvinna
och fann en själ -
du är besviken.
Mot alla fyra vindar
Ingen fågel förflyger sig hit i min undanskymda vrå,ingen svart svala som bringar längtan,
ingen vit mås som bebådar storm...
I klippors skugga håller min vildhet vakt,
färdig att fly för minsta rassel, för nalkande steg...
Ljudlös och blånande är min värld, den saliga...
Jag har en port mot alla fyra vindar.
Jag har en gyllene port mot öster - för kärleken som aldrig kommer,
jag har en port för dagen och en annan för vemodet,
jag har en port för döden - den står alltid öppen.
En önskan
Av hela vår soliga världönskar jag blott en trädgårdssoffa
där en katt solar sig...
Där skulle jag sitta
med ett brev i barmen,
ett enda litet brev.
Så ser min dröm ut...
Thomas Stearns Eliot 1888-1965
Eyes that I saw last in tears
Eyes that I saw last in tearsThrough division
Here in death's dream kingdom
I see the eyes but not the tears
This is my affliction.
This is my affliction
Eyes I shall not see again
Eyes of decision
Eyes I shall not see unless
At the door of death's other kingdom
Where, as in this,
The eyes outlast a little while
A little while outlast the tears
And hold us in derision.
The Hollow Men
| Mistah Kurtz - he dead. |
| A penny for the Old Guy |
IWe are the hollow menWe are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rat's feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us - if at all - not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. IIEyes I dare not meet in dreamsIn death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer - Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom IIIThis is the dead landThis is the cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they recieve The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IVThe eyes are not hereThere are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. VHere we go 'round the prickly pearPrickly pear prickly pear Here we go 'round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. |
Emily Dickinson 1830-1886
My Life Closed Twice
My life closed twice before its close -It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
I'm Nobody! Who are you?Are you - Nobody - too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Dont tell! they'd advertise - you know!
How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell your name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!
Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 - 1822
To......
Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory-
Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
A widow bird sate mourning for her Love
A widow bird sate mourning for her loveUpon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,
The freezing stream below
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheels sound
George Gordon, Lord Byron 1788-1824
Could Love Forever
Could love foreverRun like a river
And Time's endeavour
Be tried in vain -
No other pleasure
With this could measure
And like a treasure
We'd hug the chain
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying
And, form'd for flying
Love plumes his wing
- Then for this reason
Let's love a season;
But let that season be only spring.
When We Two Parted
When we two partedIn silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow;
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met:
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
Fare Thee Well
Fare thee well! and if for ever,Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou would'st at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee--
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, myself deceive not--
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth--
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat:
And the undying thought which paineth
Is--that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live--but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou would'st solace gather--
When our child's first accents flow--
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee--
When her lip to thine is pressed--
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee--
Think of him thy love had blessed!
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest--
All my madness--none can know--
All my hopes--where'er thou goest--
Wither--yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride--which not a world could bow--
Bows to thee--by thee forsaken,
Even my soul foresakes me now.
But 'tis done--all words are idle--
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited--
Torn from every nearer tie--
Seared in heart--and lone--and blighted--
More than this I scarce can die.
Stanzas to Augusta
I
Though the day of my Destiny's over,And the star of my Fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy Soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the Love which my Spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in Thee.
II
Then when Nature around me is smiling,The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from Thee.
III
Though the rock of my last Hope is shivered,And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To Pain---it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn;
They may torture, but shall not subdue me;
'Tis of Thee that I think---not of them.
IV
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake;
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
V
Yet I blame not the World, nor despise it,Nor the war of the many with one;
If my Soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of Thee.
VI
From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that what I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the Desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of Thee.
Pär Lagerkvist 1891-1974
Det är vackrast när det skymmer
Det är vackrast när det skymmer.All den kärlek himlen rymmer
ligger samlad i ett dunkelt ljus
över jorden, över markens hus.
Allt är ömhet, allt är smekt av händer.
Herren själv utplånar fjärran stränder.
Allt är nära, allt är långt ifrån.
Allt är givet människan som lån.
Allt är mitt, och allt skall tagas från mig,
inom kort skall allting tagas från mig.
Träden, molnen, marken där jag går.
Jag skall vandra ensam, utan spår.
Glömma, glömma
Glömma, glömma,bara glömma allt som var ditt liv.
Intet, intet får du minnas,
ingenting hos dig får finnas
utav det som varit du.
Varthän går du! Varthän nu?
Emot något nytt att glömma,
att förneka och fördöma,
emot det som skall bli du?
Varthän går du?
Varthän nu?
Du är visst lycklig för ingenting
Du är visst lycklig för ingentingblott för att det så ska vara
Mig måste livet ge kostbara ting
så strålande underbara
Nu har det gett mig sitt dunklaste djup
en lidelses hav att befara
Och dig, min älskade, ingenting
en leende kärlek bara.
Jag har sålt min smärta
Jag har sålt min smärta på ett torg,blodigt utsmyckad.
Där salubjöds massor av sorg,
nedsölad och styckad.
Jag har skrikit mig hes på ett torg
bland slaktaredrängar.
En enda människas sorg
var inte värd mycket pängar.
Du glädje är dyrbar och skygg
bliv ödmjukt fördold i mitt hjärta.
Tills jag får dig giva till en
som inte behövde min smärta.
Ångest
Ångest, ångest är min arvedel,min strupes sår,
mitt hjärtas skri i världen.
Nu styvnar löddrig sky
i nattens grova hand,
nu stiga skogarna
och stela höjder
så kargt mot himmelens
förkrympta valv.
Hur hårt är allt,
hur stelnat, svart och stilla!
Jag famlar kring i detta dunkla rum,
jag känner klippans vassa kant mot mina fingrar,
jag river mina uppåtsträckta händer
till blods mot molnens frusna trasor.
Ack, mina naglar sliter jag från fingrarna,
mina händer river jag såriga, ömma
mot berg och mörknad skog,
mot himlens svarta järn
och mot den kalla jorden!
Ångest, ångest är min arvedel,
min strupes sår,
mitt hjärtas skri i världen.
Blott du mitt bröst är kvar
Blott du, mitt bröst, är kvardu som kan lida
du som kan känna smärtans djup
men inte klaga
Stoft är min mun
i okänd mark förvittrad
stoft är min strupe
kan sitt kval ej ropa
Till skärvor slagna
ligger mina lemmar
bland vägens grus
att trampas utav alla.
Lyft dig på blodiga vingar
Lyft dig på blodiga vingar,gamle rättfärdige gud,
du som världar betvingar,
du alla himlars gud.
Lyft dig ur blodiga redet,
där du din tanke tänkt,
den enda, den stora och starka,
den du åt oss har skänkt.
Herre, vi tänka som trälar
det du tänkte som gud.
Hör du vårt skri i natten,
till dig, till dig för det bud.
Bryt dig på dånande vingar
väg genom mörkrets hav.
Djupast här nere du finna,
skall vår blodiga grav.
Se vårt blodiga rede,
där vi nu kämpat till slut.
Tanken vi kunde ej fatta
och tänkte den likväl ut.
Kampen och livets tanke,
blodets mäktiga röst
blev blott ett vrål i natten
ur söndersargade bröst.
Alltför stort var det stora,
vi gjorde det grovt och smått.
Men den längtan som drev oss in i döden
var av ditt eget mått.
Se vårt rede som klibbar
fast vår dödströtta kropp.
Inga vingar oss lyfta
till dig, o herre, opp.
Inga vingar oss lyfta,
du måste komma till oss.
Fjärran och dold är din klyfta,
fjärran och dold för oss.
Eeva Kilpi 1928-
Säg till om jag stör
Säg till om jag stör,sa han när han steg in,
så går jag med detsamma.
Du inte bara stör,
svarade jag,
du rubbar hela min existens.
Välkommen.
Ebba Lindqvist 1908-1995
Gåva
Jag ville ge dig en gåvajag gett till ingen förut.
Så ger jag dig min ensamhet,
den varar till livets slut.
Nils Johan Einar Ferlin 1898-1961
Som nu
Jag också ville väl andraoch ljusare stigar gå -
andra stigar att vandra
förrn mörknaden faller på.
Jag också - skulle man tycka.
kunde väl finna en bro
som leder - om inte till lycka
så bara till vardagsro.
Jag också kunde väl hitta
ett ärende - likasom du.
Det blir lite tradigt att sitta
och stirra tillbaks - Som nu.
Stjärnorna kvittar det lika
Man kan inte räkna dem allasägner och sånt man hör...
Det sägs att en stjärna ska falla
var gång när en människa dör-
Lyhörd i nätternas kyla
och vindarnas frysna musik
hundarna hörde jag yla,
som hundarna yla för lik,
Änkorna hörde jag skrika
och barnen snyfta för bröd-
- Stjärnorna kvittar det lika
om någon är född eller död...
Oscar O'Flahertie Fingal Wills Wilde 1854-1900
Requiescat
Tread lightly, she is nearUnder the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone
She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1809-1892
The Lady of Shalott
On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
II
There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
'The Lady of Shalott'.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
Aphra Behn 1640-1689
Song
Love in fantastic triumph sat,Whilst bleeding hearts about him flow'd,
From whom fresh paines he did create,
And strange tyrannic power he show'd;
From thy bright eyes he took his fire,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desire,
Enough t'undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And ev'ry killing dart from thee:
Thus thou and I the God have arm'd,
And set him up a deity,
But my poor heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.
Thomas Lovell Beddoes 1803-1849
Dream-Pedlary
If there were dreams to sell,What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rang the bell,
What would you buy?
A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.
Such pearls from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.
But there were dreams to sell
Ill didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell,
Waking, to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one should I?
If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call,
Out of hell's murky haze,
Heaven's blue pall?
Raise my loved long-lost boy,
To lead me to his joy.--
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways;
Vain is the call.
Know'st thou not ghosts to sue,
No love thou hast.
Else lie, as I will do,
And breathe thy last.
So out of Life's fresh crown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus are the ghosts to woo;
Thus are all dreams made true,
Ever to last!
Lu Yu
Molnen över oss kommer och går,
Vinden kring huset flyger och far.
Just så är livet, så ta det lungt!
Vem hindrar oss från att njuta?
Tove Jansson 1914-2001
Misans klagolåt
En misa har jag varit i alla mina dar,miserabel var min mamma, misären var min far.
En misa har jag varit och en misa vill jag bli;
det är så skönt att sjunka i mild melankoli.
Och om jag vore vacker och min näsa underbar,
beundrad utav alla och dyrkad av envar,
så skulle kanske någon, som vore stor och rik
tillsända mig en ros i cellofan från en butik.
Men allting har en ända och lyckan flyr sin kos;
det finns för många taggar på varje liten ros.
Jag går i månens skimmer invid den svarta älv
och plockar anemoner - och tänker på mig själv.
Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson) 1832-1898
The Walrus and the Carpenter
The sun was shining on the sea,Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright --
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done --
'It's very rude of him.' she said,
'To come and spoil the fun!'
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead --
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
'If this were only cleared away,'
They said, 'it would be grand.'
'If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose,' the Walrus said,
'That they could get it clear?'
'l doubt it,' said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
'O Oysters, come and walk with us!
The Walrus did beseech.
'A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.'
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head --
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
Out four young Oysters hurried up.
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat --
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more --
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
'The time has come,' the Walrus said,
'To talk of many things:
Of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax --
Of cabbages -- and kings --
And why the sea is boiling hot --
And whether pigs have wings.'
'But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried,
'Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!'
'No hurry!' said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
'A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said,
'Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed --
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.'
'But not on us!' the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
'After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!'
'The night is fine,' the Walrus said,
'Do you admire the view?'
'It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
'Cut us another slice-
I wish you were not quite so deaf-
I've had to ask you twice!'
'It seems a shame,' the Walrus said,
'To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
'The butter's spread too thick!'
'I weep for you,'the Walrus said:
'I deeply sympathize.'
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
'O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,
'You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none --
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
William Shakespeare 1564-1616
Sonnet #116
Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Marge Piercy 1936-
The Friend
We sat across the table.he said, cut off your hands.
They are always poking at things.
They might touch me.
I said yes.
Food grew cold on the table.
he said, burn your body.
It is not clean and smells like sex.
It rubs my mind sore.
I said yes.
I love you, I said.
That's very nice, he said
I like to be loved,
that makes me happy.
Have you cut off your hands yet?
Unlearning to Not Speak
Blizzards of paperin slow motion
sift through her.
In nightmares she suddenly recalls
a class she signed up for
but forgot to attend.
Now it is too late.
Now it is time for finals:
losers will be shot.
Phrases of men who lectured her
drift and rustle in piles:
Why don't you speak up?
Why are you shouting?
You have the wrong answer,
wrong line, wrong face.
They tell her she is womb-man,
babymachine, mirror image, toy,
earth mother and penis-poor,
a dish of synthetic strawberry icecream
rapidly melting.
She grunts to a halt.
She must learn again to speak
starting with I
starting with We
starting as the infant does
with her own true hunger
and pleasure
and rage.
August Strindberg 1849-1912
Chrysaetos
Vad vänta de tråkiga kråkornadär nere på höstlig hed?
Förr var det bara råkorna
som fällde i nakna träd.
Vad vänta de bråkiga kråkorna
som stryka i hundratal?
Är det åtel och agn
på hemslaktarns vagn?
Eller ligger på strö
ett djur, som skall dö,
eller hålla kråkorna bal?
Vad vänta de bråkiga kråkorna
där nere framför mitt hus?
De hänga i lindarna,
och gunga för vindarna;
på nattkvist kraxa de,
på morgonkvist flaxa de,
och vänta att dager blir ljus.
Vad tjuta de svarta hundarna
i tobakplantörens gård?
De luffa och leta i lundarna;
de hålla väl vaka och vård.
Vad sjunga de svarta hundarna?
De sjunga väl icke ut lik?
De sitta i klunga,
och tjuta och sjunga,
halsarna sträckta,
öronen stäckta...
Nosarna heta och torra...
Nu höras de morra,
när ugglorna börja sitt skrik.
Vad skrika de gula ugglorna
på tobaksladornas tak,
när rostiga flöjeln med bugglorna
knappt håller i vinden sig rak?
Vad sjunger den rostiga flöjeln
vid nattvindens sorgemusik?
Är det lik eller vitt?
Gäller mitt eller ditt?
Är det sorg eller nöd,
eller varslar det död?
Det är död, det är nöd, det är lik!
Vad göra de krokiga karlarna
där nere på hedens snö?
De sätta väl snaror för hararna
me'n marken ligger i tö.
Granris bära de,
störar skära de,
ruska ut vägen
mäta ut stegen;
vinterväg är det,
brister eller bär det
där bortnast på islagd sjö?
Vad göra de krokiga karlarna
vid ingången till mitt hem?
Nu knakar porten i nararna,
en snöil slår den i kläm.
Karlarna str
granris i snö;
flingorna falla,
snöstjärnor kalla;
spåren fylla de;
ner mylla de
allt! Allt! Allt!
Vit och bitter är snön som salt!
Slädorna komma, kuskarna skrika,
lyktorna flämta, dagen går ut.
Karlarna bära, karlarna spika...
Sagan är slut! Sagan är slut!
Archibald MacLeish 1892-1982
Ars Poetica
A poem should be palpable and muteAs a globed fruit
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind -
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs
A poem should be equal to:
Not true
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -
A poem should not mean
But be
Lyriken från Pst
Opus 10
Har jag blott fusidorer och fosorså är jag så lycklig så.
Jag vill aldrig dansa på rosor
ty då sticker de mig i min tå.
Blå är min levnad och ljusgrön min lott
med fusidorer och fosor blott.
Snus uti gyllene dosor
tycks mig så smått så smått.
Opus 18
Vem rider så fort genom natt och vind?Bonden i stugan beblickar sin grind.
Är det vredens rosor som färga hans kind?
Nej, det är lingonen röda.
Älvakonungen stänger sitt spjäll,
bergamotterna skallra i kulen kväll,
och vem rider så häftigt mot Häcklefjäll,
spörjer sig skalden med möda.
Opus 54
Qvellens guldmoln kransa fästet.Kråkan gnyr i kända nästet.
Lärkan somnar i sin bale.
Näcken tittar opp, tvi vale.
Redan stämmer han sin giga.
Ljuden blifva jemmerliga.
Bäcken eller swimming-poolen
gå så illa åt fiolen.
Ingen spelman bör för katten
hålla felan under vatten,
då dess mindre goda stämning
fyller jorden med beklämning.
Minsta hänsyn föreskrifver
att Guds barn han aldrig blifver.
Ingen låter på det viset
ofvantill i pradiset
Opus 68
Sakna och sukta är älskandes lotti världarnas ve och villa.
Jag önskar dig semlor och allt som är gott
ty jag vill dig icke illa.
Ställ dina steg till din faders tjäll
och gjut dina tårar i stallet.
Jag ville jag tyckte jag kände mig säll
men så var icke fallet.
Opus 154
När solen skiner och skyn är blåså undrar jag vanligen vad som står på.
Ty luftens natur är att vara grå
och regnig och blåsig och kylig och rå.
Naturligtvis kan jag väl inte förstå
av vad orsak det torde förhålla sig så.
Men jag varder förvånad och häpen ändå
när solen skiner och skyn är blå.
Karin Boye 1900-1941
Jag vill möta...
Rustad, rak och pansarslutengick jag fram -
men av skräck var brynjan gjuten
och av skam.
Jag vill kasta mina vapen,
svärd och sköld.
All den hårda fiendskapen
var min köld.
Jag har sett de torra fröna
gro till slut.
Jag har sett det ljusa gröna
vecklas ut.
Mäktigt är det späda livet
mer än järn,
fram ur jordens hjärta drivet
utan värn.
Våren gryr i vinterns trakter,
där jag frös.
Jag vill möta livets makter
vapenlös.
Hur kan jag säga...
Hur kan jag säga om din röst är vacker.Jag vet ju bara, att den genomtränger mig
och kommer mig att darra som ett löv
och trasar sönder mig och spränger mig.
Vad vet jag om din hud och dina lemmar.
Det bara skakar mig att de är dina,
så att för mig finns ingen sömn och vila,
tills de är mina.
Du är min renaste tröst
Du är min renaste tröst,du är mitt fastaste skydd,
du är det bästa jag har,
ty intet gör ont som du.
Nej, intet gör ont som du.
Du svider som is och eld,
du skär som ett stål min själ -
du är det bästa jag har
Edgar Allen Poe 1809-1849
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" -
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Johan Ludvig Runeberg 1804-1877
Fåfäng önskan
Otaliga vågor vandrapå havets glänsande ban.
O, vore jag bland de andra
en bölja i ocean,
så liknöjd djupt i mitt sinne,
så sorglöst kylig och klar,
så utan ett enda minne
från flydda, sällare dar!
Dock, skulle en våg jag vara,
den samme jag vore väl då.
Här går jag ju bland en skara
av svala vågor också.
De skämta med fröjd och med smärta,
på lek de tåras och le,
blott jag har mitt brinnande hjärta:
o, vore jag utan som de!
Sorg och glädje
Sorg och glädje bådabodde i mitt hjärta,
sorg i ena kammarn,
glädje i den andra.
Oförsonligt skilda,
rådde än den ena,
än den andra ensam.
Se'n den enda kom dit,
lär hon öppnat dörren
och förenat båda,
ty min sorg är sällhet
och min glädje vemod.
Den enda stunden
Allena var jaghan kom allena;
förbi min bana
hans bana ledde
Han dröjde icke
men tänkte dröja,
han talte icke,
men ögat talte -
Du obekante,
du välbekante!
En dag försvinner,
ett år förflyter,
det enda minnet;
det andra jagar
den korta stunden
blev hos mig evigt,
den bittra stunden,
den ljuva stunden
Harriet Löwenhjelm 1887-1918
Är jag intill döden trött
Är jag intill döden trött,ganska trött,
mycket trött,
sjuk och trött och ledsen.
Lång var vägen som jag nött,
ingen liten vän jag mött.
Jag är trött,
ganska trött,
sjuk och trött och ledsen.
Säg, var hålls min lille vän,
rare vän,
ende vän
i den vida världen?
Hjärtat har jag hårt i bänn
Kommer, kommer du igen
lille vän,
rare vän
i den vida världen?
Kom och hjälp mig för Guds skull,
för min skull,
för din skull,
du som ensam kan det!
Världen är av sorger full,
allt som glimmar är ej gull.
För Guds skull,
för min skull,
hjälp mig du som kan det!
Tag mig. - Håll mig. - Smek mig sakta.
Tag mig. - Håll mig. - Smek mig sakta.Famna mig varligt en liten stund.
Gråt ett grand - för så trista fakta.
Se mig med ömhet sova en blund.
Gå ej från mig. - Du vill ju stanna,
stanna tills själv jag måste gå.
Lägg din älskade hand på min panna.
Än en liten stund är vi två.
I natt skall jag dö. - Det flämtar en låga.
Det sitter en vän och håller min hand.
I natt skall jag dö.- Vem, vem skall jag fråga,
vart jag skall resa - till vilket land?
I natt skall jag dö. - Och hur skall jag våga?
I morgon finns det en ömkansvärd
och bittert hjälplös stackars kropp,
som bäres ut på sin sista färd
att slukas av jorden opp.
Hjalmar Gullberg 1898-1961
Kyssande vind
Han kom som en vindVad bryr sig en vind om förbud?
Han kysste din kind
han kysste allt blod till din hud
Det borde ha stannat därvid:
du var ju en annans, blott lånad
en kväll i syrenernas tid
och gullregnens månad.
Han kysste ditt öra, ditt hår
Vad fäster sig en vind
sig vid, om han får
På ögonen kysstes du blind
Du ville förstås, ej alls
i början besvara hans trånad
Men snart låg din arm om hans hals
i gullregnens månad.
Från din nun har han kysst
det sista av motstånd som fanns
Din mun ligger tyst
med halvöppna läppar mot hans
Det kommer en vind och går
och hela din världsbild rasar
för en fläkt av syrenernas vår
och gullregnens klasar
Dan Andersson 1888-1920
Han är borta, kvar är natten,
kvar är jag som ingen älskar.
Såren svida. Döden stiger
fram med handen lyft till slag.
Skogen mumlar. Mörkret tynger,
vinden viskar mulna minnen,
viskar mina sista tankar:
ingen dog så arm som jag.
Bo Bergman 1869-1967
Melodi
Bara du går över markerna,lever var källa,
sjunger var tuva ditt namn.
Skyarna brinna och parkerna
susa och fälla
löven som guld i din famn.
Och vid de skummiga stränderna
hör jag din stämmas
vaggande vågsorl till tröst.
Räck mig de älskade händerna.
Mörkret skall skrämmas.
Kvalet skall släppa mitt bröst.
Bara du går över ängarna,
bara jag ser dig
vandra i fjärran förbi,
darra de eviga strängarna.
Säg mig vem ger dig
makten som blir melodi?
Månsken på Strömmen
Som klippt i sotat papperstår södra bergens kontur,
och Strömmen rullar med svarta
virvlar längs kajens mur.
Men över virvlarna spänner
månen sin blanka stråt,
och mitt i det blanka gungar
en fiskare i en båt.
Nu vevar han upp sitt sänke.
Låt se vad han får i kväll.
Det lyser i nätets maskor
som idel glimmande fjäll.
Men det är bara vatten,
som glittrar och rinner bort.
Han fiskar månsken och sjunger
och ror sin väg inom kort.
Poet, vad har du fiskat
i kväll i den strida ström?
En bubbla. En månskensdroppe.
En snabbt förrunnen dröm.
Marionetterna
Det sitter en herre i himlens sal,och till hans åldriga händer
gå knippen av trådar i tusental
från vart människoliv han tänder.
Han samlar dem alla, och rycker han till,
så niga och bocka vi som han vill
och göra så lustiga piruetter,
vi stackars marionetter.
Vi äta och dricka och älska och slåss
och dö och stoppas i jorden.
Vi bära den lysande tankens bloss,
vi äro så stora i orden.
I härlighet leva vi och i skam,
men allt som går under och allt som går fram
och allt som vår lycka och ofärd bådar
är bara ryck i trådar.
Du åldrige herre i himlens sal,
när ska du tröttna omsider?
Se dansen på dockornas karneval
är lik sig i alla tider.
Ett ryck på tråden - och allting tar slut
och människosläktet får sova ut,
och sorgen och ondskan vila sig båda
i din stora leksakslåda.