The Road not taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, 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 on 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 traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

-Robert Frost

IV

Dagarna är frön
som blommar om nätterna.
Livet är ingen överenskommelse.

Jag ville skriva om kärlek
men framtiden är mig kär.

Du måste förstå att det inte bara
är döden som växer med dagarna,
också livet växer
som värmen i din hand
och vänskapen, varje dag.

-Agneta Ara

Happiness

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

-Raymond Carver

To Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine ;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine ;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be ;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me ;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee !

-Ben Jonson

A large number

Four billion people on this earth,
but my imagination is the way it's always been:
bad with large numbers.
It is still moved by particularity.
It flits about the darkness like a flashlight beam,
disclosing only random faces,
while the rest go blindly by,
unthought of, unpitied.
Not even a Dante could have stopped that.
So what do you do when you're not,
even with all the muses on your side?

Non omnis moriar—a premature worry.
Yet am I fully alive, and is that enough?
It never has been, and even less so now.
I select by rejecting, for there's no other way,
but what I reject, is more numerous,
more dense, more intrusive than ever.
At the cost of untold losses—a poem, a sigh.
I reply with a whisper to a thunderous calling.
How much I am silent about I can't say.
A mouse at the foot of mother mountain.
Life lasts as long as a few lines of claws in the sand.

My dreams—even they are not as populous as they should be.
There is more solitude in them than crowds or clamor.
Sometimes someone long dead will drop by for a bit.
A single hand turns a knob.
Annexes of echo overgrow the empty house.
I run from the threshold down into the quiet
valley seemingly no one's—an anachronism by now.

Where does all this space still in me come from—
that I don't know.

-Wislawa Szymborska

Drömmar

En gång i drömmen
skymtade bilden förbi
av den jag älskar.
Sedan den gången går jag
alltid hoppfull till vila.

-Ono No Komachi

Because I could not stop for death

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—'tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity—

-Emily Dickinson

What is life?

And what is Life ? an hour-glass on the run
A mist retreating from the morning sun
A busy bustling still repeated dream
Its length ? A moment’s pause, a moment’s thought
And happiness ? A bubble on the stream
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought

Vain hopes—what are they ? Puffing gales of morn
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn
And robs each flowret of its gem and dies
A cobweb hiding disappointments thorn
Which stings more keenly thro’ the thin disguise

And thou, O trouble ? Nothing can suppose,
And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows,
What need requireth thee.
So free and lib’ral as thy bounty flows,
Some necessary cause must surely be.

And what is death ? Is still the cause unfound
The dark mysterious name of horrid sound
A long and ling’ring sleep the weary crave—
And peace—where can its happiness abound ?
No where at all but Heaven and the grave

Then what is Life ? When stript of its disguise
A thing to be desir’d it cannot be
Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity
’Tis but a trial all must undergo
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man’s denied to know
Untill he’s call’d to claim it in the skies.

-John Clare

Till ungdomen

Ungdom, du vars hjärta hyser
känslan i sin livlighet,
än dig glädjens fackla lyser,
men betänk dess flyktighet!
Snart de sälla åren slutas,
snart går nöjets tid förbi ...
det dig skänktes för att njutas:
skynda då att lycklig bli!

Ömma känslor, lek och löjen
ej för alltid bli din lott:
snart av alla dina nöjen
minnet är dig övrigt blott.
Snart skall du, som tusen andra
tvär och trumpen mot var man,
avundsjuk de nöjen klandra,
som du själv ej njuta kan.

Rys, att komma skall den dagen,
då du, bräcklig, trött och kall,
själv av kärleken bedragen,
flickans hopp bedraga skall!
Fåfängt, för att tycke vinna,
du vill synas ung och kry:
man skall blott dig löjlig finna
och dess mer ditt sällskap fly.

Förr än denna åldern nalkas
till ditt hjärta med sin is,
förr än blodet hos dig svalkas,
lev och sjung till nöjets pris!
Medan än du värdet känner
av dess dyra ögonblick,
gör dig glad med dina vänner,
sjung och tag ditt glas och drick!

-Anna Maria Lenngren

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
" 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'T is the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - never more.' "

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there -is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

-Edgar Allan Poe

Infruset

Skarp som nordanstormen,
allas kamp mot alla
kyler genom märgen
och gör hjärtan kalla.

Det som lövomrankat
lyste varmt i solen
liknar snart en boning
på en ö vid polen.

Men ännu där inne
milda känslor bygga,
sitta där och sörja,
lutande och skygga.

Stundom de med möda
kylans fjättrar skaka,
vilja ut, men stappla
frysande tillbaka.

Kampens bistra frostvind
isar allt det varma,
alltför kallt är livet
för de veka arma.

Längre lider vintern,
kortare blir dagen,
mörkare blir mörkret,
blekare bli dragen.

Tills de milda känslor
alla ligga döde
i sitt hem vid polen
tigande och öde.

Om en fångstman kommer
vindvräkt över haven,
mötes han av ingen
i den tysta graven.

-Gustaf Fröding

Och vi väntar

Och vi väntar,

väntar på ljudet av
fallande is
utav solen förvandlad till vatten.
Och blåser oss varma i
själen av tanken
att våren med vindarna kommer
till slut.

Jo, vi väntar.

Vi väntar på ljuset som
rider vart år
över landskap där tiden stått stilla.
Där våra mörkgråa sinnen
förvandlas till minnen
och dagar allt längre som sprudlar
av liv.

Men vi väntar

Vi väntar oss det mesta.
Väntar på det,
på det
vi är vana att

Vänta.

-Göran Hansson

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

–William Shakespeare