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Keats, Frost et quelques autres

Publié par Folfaerie

Une autre sélection de mes poèmes préférés. Keats, inévitable. Stevenson à cause des Highlands d'Ecosse, Frost dont le poème me hante depuis que je l'ai lu pour la première fois, et Hood que je ne conniassais point mais dont le Silence m'a plu...

John Keats
La Belle Dame sans Merci

'O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

    Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
            And no birds sing.

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
            And the harvest 's done.

'I see a lily on thy brow
    With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
            Fast withereth too.'

'I met a lady in the meads,
    Full beautiful—a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
            And her eyes were wild.

'I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
            And made sweet moan.

'I set her on my pacing steed
    And nothing else saw all day long,
For sideways would she lean, and sing
            A faery's song.

'She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said,
            "I love thee true!"

'She took me to her elfin grot,
    And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore;
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
            With kisses four.

'And there she lulled me asleep,
    And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd
            On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—"La belle Dame sans Merci
            Hath thee in thrall!"

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
            On the cold hill's side.

'And this is why I sojourn here
    Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
            And no birds sing.'

Robert Louis Stevenson
In the Highlands

IN the highlands, in the country places,

Where the old plain men have rosy faces,
        And the young fair maidens
                Quiet eyes;
Where essential silence cheers and blesses,
And for ever in the hill-recesses
        Her more lovely music
                Broods and dies—

O to mount again where erst I haunted;
Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,
        And the low green meadows
                Bright with sward;
And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come, and planets glinted,
        Lo, the valley hollow

O to dream, O to awake and wander
There, and with delight to take and render,
        Through the trance of silence,
                Quiet breath!
Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,
Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;
        Only winds and rivers,
                Life and death.


Robert Frost
The Road not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Thomas Hood

THERE is a silence where hath been no sound,

There is a silence where no sound may be,
    In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
    No voice is hush'd—no life treads silently,
    But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
    Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyaena calls,
    And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

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