Quotes about sere, page 2
Odaren Odar Harazadnou Odar
menag em im ashkharoum el chounem siradz.
teshvar im ashkharoum chounem vosge pakhd.
hokis e hoknadz al g hegega.
im giankn e tadarg mout anabad.
menag em menag ashkhares e tadarg, hanterts polor martots harazad odar.
jebide kaghtets vaghouts im hokin.
takhidze badets teshvar im giankin.
tavajan serer yelan im jampin.
sere vaghouts toghets im hokin.
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poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Rachel I
In Paris all look'd hot and like to fade.
Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries,
Sere with September, droop'd the chestnut-trees.
'Twas dawn; a brougham roll'd through the streets and made
Halt at the white and silent colonnade
Of the French Theatre. Worn with disease,
Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease,
Sate in the brougham and those blank walls survey'd.
She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled
To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine;
Why stops she by this empty play-house drear?
Ah, where the spirit its highest life hath led,
All spots, match'd with that spot, are less divine;
And Rachel's Switzerland, her Rhine, is here!
poem by Matthew Arnold from Sonnets (1867)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Widow's Lullaby
She droops like a dew-dropping lily,
'Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!'
The sun comes up from the lea,
As he who will never come more
Came up that first day to her door,
When the ship furled her sails by the shore,
And the spring leaves were green on the tree.
But she droops like a dew-dropping lily,
'whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie!
Whisht whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!'
The sun goes down in the sea,
As he who will never go more
Went down that last day from her door,
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poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Mother's Soul
When the moon was horned the mother died,
And the child pulled at her hand and knee,
And he rubbed her cheek and loudly cried:
'O mother, arise, give bread to me!'
But the pine tree bent its head,
And the wind at the door-post said:
'O child, thy mother is dead !'
The sun set his loom to weave the day;
The frost bit sharp like a silent cur;
The child by her pillow paused in his play:
'Mother, build up the sweet fire of fir !'
But the fir tree shook its cones,
And loud cried the pitiful stones:
'Wolf Death has thy mother's bones!'
They bore the mother out on her bier;
Their tears made warm her breast and shroud;
The smiling child at her head stood near;
And the long, white tapers shook and bowed,
And said with their tongues of gold,
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poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Cropped Apologies to Rudyard Kipling
If you can fight Monsanto’s sterile sowing,
deny blight warnings, nor fear climate change,
if cash in hand exceeds debts most's greed's owing,
if you’re the early bird with worms in range.
If you stay steady when winds may be blowing
subarctic currents shiveringly strange,
if you can soar above false walls while knowing
true sharing's bliss which cheaps deep love's exchange.
If you can fly your kite despite snow falling
avoiding kites' and kittyhawks' harsh call,
if you won't compromise with inner calling,
nor flash your feathers - pride before the fall.
If you can weather frost or luck appalling,
tail waggle far from gaggling geese, nor stall
friends' search for perch beyond the masses mawling,
refusing vested interests' greedy gall.
If you can keep your crops when all the nation
rails, vain assailing creepy crawly bugs,
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Monody, Written At Matlock
Matlock! amid thy hoary-hanging views,
Thy glens that smile sequestered, and thy nooks
Which yon forsaken crag all dark o'erlooks;
Once more I court the long neglected Muse,
As erst when by the mossy brink and falls
Of solitary Wainsbeck, or the side
Of Clysdale's cliffs, where first her voice she tried,
I strayed a pensive boy. Since then, the thralls
That wait life's upland road have chilled her breast,
And much, as much they might, her wing depressed.
Wan Indolence, resigned, her deadening hand
Laid on her heart, and Fancy her cold wand
Dropped at the frown of fortune; yet once more
I call her, and once more her converse sweet,
'Mid the still limits of this wild retreat,
I woo;--if yet delightful as of yore
My heart she may revisit, nor deny
The soothing aid of some sweet melody!
I hail the rugged scene that bursts around;
I mark the wreathed roots, the saplings gray,
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poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Tu Guardian
Duermete pronto mi amor
Que la noche ya llego
Y cierra tus ojos que yo
De tus sueos cuidare
Siempre a tu lado estare
Y tu guardian yo sere
Toda la vida
Si un dia te sientes mal
Yo de bien te llenare
Y aunque muy lejos tu estes
Yo a tu sombra cuidare
Siempre a tu lado estare
Y tu guardian yo sere
Toda la vida
Esta noche te prometo que no vendran
Ni dragones ni fantasmas a molestar
Y en la puerta de tus sueos yo voy a estar
Hasta que tus ojos vuelvan a abrir
Duermete mi amor suea con mi voz
Duermete mi amor hasta que salga el sol
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song performed by Juanes
Added by Lucian Velea
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Va Be'
Va be se proprio te lo devo dire
Non che tu mi faccia poi impazzire
Dio, ci resisto
Se non ci sei non muoio
Non penso solo a te tutte le sere
E anche se non telefoni riesco a dormire
Va be se proprio te lo devo dire
Le calze nere non mi fanno morire
Sar strano
Ma se non le hai non muoio
E poi ti prego non esagerare
Se fai l'amore non ti devi sforzare di urlare
Va be se proprio te lo devo dire
Fisicamente non sei fatta male
Ma non esageriamo
Non sei la Cardinale
E non sopporto che lo fai notare
Con quel tuo modo, ti prego, di camminare
Ma si se proprio te lo devo dire
Non mi dispiace che tu vada a sciare
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song performed by Vasco Rossi
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Shepheardes Calender: Februarie
Februarie: Ægloga Secunda. CVDDIE & THENOT.
CVDDIE.
AH for pittie, wil ranke Winters rage,
These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage?
The keene cold blowes throug my beaten hyde,
All as I were through the body gryde.
My ragged rontes all shiver and shake,
As doen high Towers in an earthquake:
They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailes,
Perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales.
THENOT.
Lewdly complainest thou laesie ladde,
Of Winters wracke, for making thee sadde.
Must not the world wend in his commun course
From good to badd, and from badde to worse,
From worse vnto that is worst of all,
And then returne to his former fall?
Who will not suffer the stormy time,
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poem by Edmund Spenser
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Adonais
I weep for Adonais -he is dead!
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me
Died Adonais; till the Future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!"
Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.
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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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