Thursday, 21 June 2018

The Land of Story-books - Robert Louis Stevenson

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Wednesday, 20 June 2018

The Vowels: An Enigma - Jonathan Swift

We are little airy creatures,
All of different voice and features;

Tuesday, 19 June 2018

The Djinns - Victor Hugo

              Town, tower,
              Shore, deep,
              Where lower
              Cliffs steep;
              Waves gray,
              Where play
              Winds gay,—
              All sleep.

Monday, 18 June 2018

Time’s Revenge - Agathias Scholasticus

She, who but late in beauty’s flower was seen,
Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien—

Sunday, 17 June 2018

The cherubic pilgrim - Johann Scheffler

The soul wherein God dwells, —
What church could holier be? —
Becomes a walking tent
Of heavenly majesty.

Saturday, 16 June 2018

The Welcome - Farīd ud-Dīn ʿAṭṭār

One night Shah Mahmúd, who had been of late
Somewhat distempered with Affairs of State,
Strolled through the Streets disguised, as wont to do—
And coming to the Baths, there on the Flue
Saw the poor Fellow who the Furnace fed
Sitting beside his Water-jug and Bread.

Friday, 15 June 2018

The Children’s Church - Karl von Gerock

The bells of the churches are ringing,—
  Papa and mamma have both gone,—
And three little children sit singing
  Together this still Sunday morn.

Thursday, 14 June 2018

Kumudvati's wedding - Kālidāsa

I have no king; my towers and terraces
Crumble and fall; my walls are overthrown;
As when the ugly winds of evening seize
The rack of clouds in helpless darkness blown.

Wednesday, 13 June 2018

Frithiof at the Court of Angantyr - Esaias Tegnér

’Tis time to tell how Angantyr,
  The earl, was seated then
High in his hall of stately fir,
  Carousing with his men.
Thence he surveyed, in merry mood,
  The day-car as it rolled;
Now cleaving through the purple flood,
  All like a swan of gold.

Monday, 11 June 2018

At the wood's edge - Eduard Mörike

At the wood's edge I can lie for long afternoons
In the grass listening to the cuckoo;
It seems to lull the whole valley to sleep
With peaceful harmony of its laments.