Kulturtempel

Weary of life, but yet afraid to die,
Sated and soured too, he slowly sinks,
With genius, knowledge, eloquence and wit,
And all the gifts of fortune vanly given ;
Some morbid ply that flaws the heart or brain,
Some strange infirmity of thought or will,
Has marred the mall ; nothing remains behind
But fragmentary thoughts and broken schemes,
Some brilliant sayings and a social fame
Already fading ; but his mind is yet
Keen, clear, and vivid, though his nerveless will
Can never rise to action ; so he ends—
The eagle's eye without the eagle's wing.



William Edward Hartpole Lecky (1838-1903)
Aus Poems (1895)

DEATH

NOR dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again,
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath
He knows death to the bone —
Man has created death.

Aus: The Winding Stair and other poems (1933)





































THOSE DANCING DAYS ARE GONE

COME, let me sing into your ear;
Those dancing days are gone,
All that silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone,
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.

Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter us the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping in a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.

I thought it out this very day,
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
May sing, and sing until he drop,
Whether to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.

Aus: Words For Music Perhaps XIX

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS (1865-1939)
Literatur Nobelpreis 1923

REMORSE — A FRAGMENT

OF all the numerous ills that hurt our peace—
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those
By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:
In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say, 'it was no deed of mine:'
But, when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added, 'blame thy foolish self!'
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others,
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;
Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments
There's not a keener lash!
lives there a man so firm, who, whilst his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts of peace?
O happy, happy, enviabl man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!




PEGASUS AT WANLOCKHEAD

WITH Pegasus upon a day,
Apollo weary flying,
Through frosty hills the journey lay,
On foot the way was plying.

Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan and Apollo goes
To get a frosty caulker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work,
There by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;
My Pegasus is poorly shod,
I'll pay you like my master.

(To John Taylor, Ramage's, 3 o' clock.)

ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)

A Winter Night

IT was a chilly winter's night;
And frost was glittering on the ground,
And evening stars were twinkling bright;
And from the gloomy plain around
Came no sound,
But where, within the wood-girt tower,
The churchbell slowly struck the hour;

As if that all of human birth
Had risen to the final day,
And soaring from the worn-out earth
Were called in hurry and dismay
Far away;
And I alone of all mankind
Were left in loneliness behind.

* * * * *
Mehr über diesen Dichter kann man auf der Website der William Barnes Society finden.

The Visionary

SILENT is the House: all are laid asleep:
One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep,
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning treees

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:
I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.

Frown, my haughty sire! chide my angry dame;
Set yor slaves to spy, threaten me with shame:
But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.

What I love shall come like visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;
What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray,
Though for faith unstained, my life mustforfeit pay.

Burn then, little lamp, glimmer straight and clear —
Hush, a rustling wing stirs, methinks the air;
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;
Strange Power, I trust thy might, trust thou, my constancy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Last Lines

'The following are the last lines my sister Emily ever wrote.'
(Charlotte Brontë)

NO coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubles sphere:
I see Heavens Glory shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life that in me has rest,
As I—undying Life—have power in thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: utterly vain:
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Hiding so fast by thine infinity;
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in thee.

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou—thou art Being and Breath,
And what thou art may never be destroyed.

To the Muses

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From ancient melody has ceased;

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea
Wandering in many a coral grove,
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarely move!
The sound is forced, the notes are few!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hear the Voice of the Bard

HEAR the voice of the Bard
Who present, past, and future sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walked among the ancient trees,

Calling the làpsed soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might control
The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!

'O Earth, O Earth, return!
Arise from out the dewy grass;
Niht is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumberous mass.

Turn away no more;
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor,
The watery shore,
Is given thee till the break of day.'