Short Poems

Roman, théâtre, poésie,
Il cultive tout avec art.
Entre Aicard et l'Académie,
Il n'y a pas un grand… écart.

Lys over Landet,
Det er det, vi vil.

Lad Andre tænke, sige,
Guld giør os lykkelige;
Jeg fandt mit Himmerige,
Min Pige! i dit Skiød.

Dost thou
Not feel them slip,
How cold! how cold! the moon's
Thin wavering finger-tips, along
Thy throat?

Lumea mare şi pustie înaintea mea se-ntinde,
Nici cu ochii, nici cu mintea nu încerc a o cuprinde;
Şi-n ist haos fără margini, fără de-nceput şi rost
Mi-ai dat tu, fiinţă dragă, sufletului adăpost.
Şi de-aceea, mult iubite, când la tine mă gândesc,
Ca şi lumii, eu iubirii, margini nu pot să-i găsesc.

So may you sleep alway,
My baby, my dear son:
Amen, Amen, Amen.
My baby, my dear son.

Lucknow Residency -
kids counting bullet holes
on the walls

(Note: The Residency at Lucknow was the scene of bitter fighting during the summer of 1857 when the Indian Sepoys revolted against their British masters. Much of the building was destroyed during that battle and the many bullet holes on its crumbling walls can be seen by the visitors even today.)

once
we were young
at this
machine. . .

With pleasure we would love to dwell
On the charming themes of Lowell.

SOUL, heart, and body, we thus singly name,
Are not in love divisible and distinct, But each with each inseparably link'd. One is not honour, and the other shame,
But burn as closely fused as fuel, heat, and flame.

They do not love who give the body and keep
The heart ungiven; nor they who yield the soul, And guard the body. Love doth give the whole; Its range being high as heaven, as ocean deep,
Wide as the realms of air or planet's curving sweep.