O spirit pure - António Ferreira

O spirit pure, purer in realms above 

Than whilst thou tarriedst in this vale of pain, 

Why hast thou treated me with cold disdain. 

Nor, as thou ought'st, returned my faithful love?

Song of the Berserks - Anonymous

Brown are our ships. 

But the Vauns admire 

The haunts of the brave; 

Horses of the sea. 

They carry the warrior 

To the winning of plunder.

Imagine, civilised being - Juan Rodolfo Wilcock

Imagine, civilised being, that you are the

Last man left on the earth and imagine:

All the diamonds have returned as stones

You are the King of America and of Russia

You can clean your arse with banknotes

But why now would you need to do so

Out of some scruple towards the worms?

Neither this nor that - Imam Ahmad Raza

Is His face the day or the Sun? 

It is neither this nor that. 

It His tress the night or the musk? 

It is neither this nor that. 

From Another Hill - Yahya Kemal Beyatli

I looked at you from another hill, dear Istanbul!

I know you like back of my hand, and love you dearly.

Come, come and sit on my heart's throne as long as I live

Just to love a district of yours is worth a whole life.

A Picture - Steen Steensen Blicher

I lay on my heathery hills alone;

  The storm-winds rushed o'er me in turbulence loud;

My head rested lone on the gray moorland stone;

  My eyes wandered skyward from cloud unto cloud.

The village schoolmaster - Willem Bilderdijk

There he sits; his figure and his rigid bearing

Let us know most clearly what is his ideal:–

Confidence in self, in his lofty standing;

Thereto add conceit in his own great value.

Certain, he can read–yes, and write and cipher;

In the almanac no star-group's a stranger.

The North wind and the Sun - Babrius

Betwixt the North wind and the Sun arose

A contest, which would soonest of his clothes

Strip a wayfaring clown, so runs the tale.

The Storm - Alcæus of Mytilene

Now here, now there, the wild waves sweep,

Whilst we, betwixt them o'er the deep,

In shatter'd tempest-beaten bark,

With laboring ropes are onward driven,

The Harvesters - Aleardo Aleardi

What time in summer, sad with so much light,

The sun beats ceaselessly upon the fields;

The harvesters, as famine urges them,

Draw hitherward in thousands, and they wear

The look of those that dolorously go