Poetry

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[!--quoteo(post=130251:date=Mar 1 2006, 10:42 PM:name=Conor)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(Conor @ Mar 1 2006, 10:42 PM) [snapback]130251[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]
The same theme as the Charge of the Light Brigade? Are you sure Per? I think this poem is just about friendship and has little to do with British soldiers galloping into a suicide mission on horseback with the wind in their tangled manes... [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/cool.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"B)\" border=\"0\" alt=\"cool.gif\" /]
[/quote]

No, mate, the poem following The Thousandth Man has a similar theme to The Thousandth Man [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/wink.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\";)\" border=\"0\" alt=\"wink.gif\" /]
 
This one of my Favorites. unfortunately some of my very favorites are songs in spanish, but I'll abide by the rules hehe. anywho here it goes:

Annabelle Lee
Edgar Allan Poe



It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.


I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason
(as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.


But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
 
This is a pretty poor translation, but I couldn't find a better one:

In The Fog
Herman Hesse

It's strange to wander in the fog!
A lonely bush, a lonely stone,
No tree can see the other one,
And one is all alone.

The world was full of friends back then,
As life was light to me;
But now the fog has come,
And no one can I see.

Truly, no one is wise,
Who does not know the dark
Which inevitably and silently
Does from others him part.

It's strange to wander in the fog!
Life is loneliness
No Man knows the other one,
And one is all alone.


Original:

Im Nebel
Herman Hesse


Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Einsam ist jeder Busch und Stein,
Kein Baum sieht den anderen,
Jeder ist allein.

Voll von Freuden war mir die Welt,
Als noch mein Leben Licht war,
Nun, da der Nebel fällt,
Ist keiner mehr sichtbar.

Wahrlich, keiner ist weise,
Der nicht das Dunkle kennt,
Das unentrinnbar und leise.
Von allen ihn trennt.

Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Leben ist einsam sein.
Kein Mensch kennt den anderen,
Jeder ist allein
 
[!--quoteo(post=130966:date=Mar 6 2006, 08:28 PM:name=Perun)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(Perun @ Mar 6 2006, 08:28 PM) [snapback]130966[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]
The world was full of friends back then,
As life was light to me;
But now the fog has come,
And no one can I see.
[/quote]
I know this is a translation but this line reminds me of another poem I have read called "Roe Deer":
"The deer had come for me"
Basically the interpretation is that in this line, the poet means that the natural world and the human world interconnect for a brief second. It reminds us how busy our lives our and how "sophisticated" we think we are when really, we are nothing more than evolved animals. I love the way this poem reminds us how easily isolated we can become, all it takes is for a metaphorical fog to enter our lives... be that money or power, greed or wealth. [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/cool.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\"B)\" border=\"0\" alt=\"cool.gif\" /]
 
A few excerpts by Walt Whitman.

I Sing The Body Electric
...Have you ever loved the body of a woman?
Have you ever loved the body of a man?
Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations
and times all over the earth?

If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred,
And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted,
And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more
beautiful than the most beautiful face...

To You
Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of
dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your
feet and hands,
Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners,
troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true soul and body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops,
work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating,
drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you
be my poem,
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better
than you...

Of The Terrible Doubt Of Appearances
...When he whom I love travels with me, or sits a long while holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom—I am silent—I require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances, or that of identity beyond the grave;
But I walk or sit indifferent—I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me...


You can see Whitman's love of humanity. He himself being a common man, worked as a printer, then became a teacher and journalist. During the Civil War, he worked with dedication in hospitals. He struggled to support himself financially most of his life. His poetry, however, overflows with catchy optimism. (It has helped me on this sad, sad day...)

I also have a slightly embarrassing story to go with Whitman. When I was a student and short of money, instead of going to the library, I used to visit a bookshop and read "Leaves of Grass" bit by bit, almost every day. I found his work really fascinating, and I still do [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/smile.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\":)\" border=\"0\" alt=\"smile.gif\" /]
 
[!--quoteo(post=131034:date=Mar 7 2006, 12:07 PM:name=SilentLucidity)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(SilentLucidity @ Mar 7 2006, 12:07 PM) [snapback]131034[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]
I also have a slightly embarrassing story to go with Whitman. When I was a student and short of money, instead of going to the library, I used to visit a bookshop and read "Leaves of Grass" bit by bit, almost every day. I found his work really fascinating, and I still do [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/smile.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\":)\" border=\"0\" alt=\"smile.gif\" /]
[/quote]

I do that regularly. Fortunately the bookshop here is huge and overwhelmed with visitors, so they only notice you if you sit there for hours-literally.
 
FEMALE POEM
I want a man who's handsome, smart and strong
One who loves to listen long.
One who thinks before he speaks
One who'll call, not wait for weeks.
I want him to be gainfully employed,
When I spend his cash, be not annoyed.
Pulls out my chair and opens my door,
massages my back and begs to do more.
Oh! For a man who makes love to my mind
And knows what to answer to "how big is my behind?"
I want this man to love me to no end,
And always be my very best friend.


MALE POEM
I want a deaf-mute nymphomaniac
with huge boobs who owns a liquor store and a bass boat.
I know this doesn't rhyme and I don't give a shit.
 
And now, in order to dim the boundaries of sex(es), here's one more by Whitman, an excerpt from The Sleepers (an utterly beautiful poem that I recommend to everyone):

...Double yourself and receive me, darkness!
Receive me and my lover too—he will not let me go without him.

I roll myself upon you, as upon a bed—I resign myself to the dusk.

He whom I call answers me, and takes the place of my lover,
He rises with me silently from the bed.

Darkness! you are gentler than my lover—his flesh was sweaty and panting,
I feel the hot moisture yet that he left me.

My hands are spread forth, I pass them in all directions,
I would sound up the shadowy shore to which you are journeying.

Be careful, darkness! already, what was it touch’d me?
I thought my lover had gone, else darkness and he are one,
I hear the heart-beat—I follow, I fade away...
 
Do I need to introduce William Blake here?

Fair warning: This is a long one

Auguries of Innocence
William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
 
[!--quoteo(post=129383:date=Feb 20 2006, 11:06 PM:name=Perun)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(Perun @ Feb 20 2006, 11:06 PM) [snapback]129383[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]School poems are usually the best...[/quote]...and I just love this poem by Blake.

Also, I have noticed, Perun, that you prefer rhymed poetry. Am I right?
 
Most of the poetry I have read is in fact in Latin. This is one of my favourites, a very poignant poem, to which unfortunately the English translation is able to do very little justice.

Multas per gentes
Catullus

Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus
advenio has miseras, frater, ad inferias,
ut te postremo donarem munere mortis
et mutam nequiquam alloquerer cinerem.
quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum,
heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi,
nunc tamen interea haec, prisco quae more parentum
tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias,
accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu,
atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.


Through many nations and many seas have I come
To carry out these wretched funeral rites, brother,
That at last I may give you this final gift in death
And that I might speak in vain to silent ashes.
Since fortune has borne you, yourself, away from me.
Oh, poor brother, snatched unfairly away from me,
Now, though, even these, which from antiquity and in the custom of our
parents, have been handed down, a gift of sadness in the rites, accept
them, flowing with many brotherly tears, And for eternity, my brother,
hail and farewell.
 
[!--quoteo(post=131043:date=Mar 7 2006, 02:01 PM:name=SilentLucidity)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(SilentLucidity @ Mar 7 2006, 02:01 PM) [snapback]131043[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]
Also, I have noticed, Perun, that you prefer rhymed poetry. Am I right?
[/quote]

Well, I never really noticed myself, but now that you say it, you're right. The rhymes give the whole thing a better flow and make it more... well, poetic, I guess. There are some notable exceptions (and I will post some in the future), but as a whole, yes, you're right.

[!--quoteo--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE[/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]to which unfortunately the English translation is able to do very little justice.[/quote]

I can imagine the poignancy of the Latin original, but before I will really read it, it's probably going to take a few more years...
 
[!--quoteo(post=131044:date=Mar 7 2006, 02:02 PM:name=national acrobat)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(national acrobat @ Mar 7 2006, 02:02 PM) [snapback]131044[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]...to which unfortunately the English translation is able to do very little justice.[/quote]As Robert Frost (I think) said, poetry is the first thing that gets lost in translation.

[!--quoteo(post=131047:date=Mar 7 2006, 02:14 PM:name=Perun)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(Perun @ Mar 7 2006, 02:14 PM) [snapback]131047[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]I can imagine the poignancy of the Latin original, but before I will really read it, it's probably going to take a few more years...[/quote]Don't worry. Try this, another one by Catullus [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/smile.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\":)\" border=\"0\" alt=\"smile.gif\" /]

Carmen 70
Nulli se dicit mulier mea nubere malle
quam mihi, non si se Iuppiter ipse petat.
dicit: sed mulier cupido quod dicit amanti,
in vento et rapida scribere oportet aqua.

Poem 70
My woman says to me that there is none
With whom she'd rather spend her days than I,
Should even Jove himself ask her to wed.
So she says, but women often lie,
What a woman says to a desirous lover,
This he ought to write in the wind and rapid water.
 
While Catullus is on the agenda, I feel it impossible to neglect to mention this next poem, however well know and hackneyed it is.

Carmen 85
Catullus

Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

Poem 85
I hate and I love. Why do I do this, perhaps you ask?
I don't know, but I feel it happening and I am in torture.
 
Since I just edited it, I thought I'd post the original here:

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest--
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men--
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me

Antony's Eulogy, from William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 2. Imagine being forced to cite this in it's entirety every morning at school (yes, I had sadistic teachers!).
 
I volunteered to do this once in Grade 9 English, and got it perfect enough for the sadistic Mrs. J. Wesley.
 
That's a sonnet by Louise Labé, a 16th century French poetess


Sonnet VIII
Je vis, je meurs; je me brûle et me noie,
J'ai chaud extrême en endurant froidure;
La vie m'est et trop molle et trop dure,
J'ai grands ennuis entremélés de joie.

Tout en un coup je ris et je larmoie,
Et en plaisir maint grief tourment j'endure,
Mon bien s'en va, et à jamais il dure,
Tout en un coup je sèche et je verdoie.

Ainsi Amour inconstamment me mène
Et, quand je pense avoir plus de douleur,
Sans y penser je me trouve hors de peine.

Puis, quand je crois ma joie être certaine,
Et être en haut de mon désiré heur,
Il me remet en mon premier malheur.


I hope the translation is good enough

Sonnet VIII
I live and die; drowning I burn to death,
Seared by the ice and frozen by the fire;
Life is as hard as iron, as soft as breath;
My joy and trouble dance on the same wire.

In the same sudden breath I laugh and weep,
My torment pleasure where my pleasure grieves;
My treasure's lost which I for all time keep,
At once I wither and put out new leaves.

Thus constant Love is my inconstant guide;
And when I am to pain's refinement brought,
Beyond all hope, he grants me a reprieve.

And when I think joy cannot be denied,
And scaled the peak of happiness I sought,
He casts me down into my former grief
 
[!--quoteo(post=131374:date=Mar 9 2006, 11:41 PM:name=syl)--][div class=\'quotetop\']QUOTE(syl @ Mar 9 2006, 11:41 PM) [snapback]131374[/snapback][/div][div class=\'quotemain\'][!--quotec--]I hope the translation is good enough[/quote]It's great and the poem beautiful. As many of us, I can relate to it perfectly...
 
That is a beautiful one, syl. It resembles very much what I write lately, but of course this is much more refined and, put in simple words, much better.

Speaking of which, I thought I might post something by yours truly. I'm breaking my own rules here, as it was written as lyrics to a song, but the song doesn't exist, so it's really a borderline. No prize in guessing what it's about (or which book and which poem inspired it) [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/tongue.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\":P\" border=\"0\" alt=\"tongue.gif\" /]
It must be said though that this is one of the rare things I write that has got a positive message. I've also been known to write stuff that would make any Goth cry [img src=\"style_emoticons/[#EMO_DIR#]/wink.gif\" style=\"vertical-align:middle\" emoid=\";)\" border=\"0\" alt=\"wink.gif\" /]

Belshazar
Perun

Not a silent night in Babylon
The people all had gathered, the King he felt so strong
It was the greatest feast anyone had ever seen
The King he felt as strong as any god had ever been
But then they all went pale as they stared towards the wall
A ghostly hand was writing letters black and bold and tall
Mene mene tekel Uparsin
The words they were written on the wall

The King became afraid and sent across the land
Sent for someone who could read the letters of this hand
Day and night passed on and nobody was found
The King became so nervous as there was no one around
Then finally he came, the prophet of the south
The King absorbed eagerly the words that came from his mouth
Mene mene tekel Uparsin
The words they were written on the wall

God took your kingdom and gave it away
Gave it away, gave it away
God took your kingdom and gave it away
Gave it away, gave it away

We're all bound to see our own writing some day
Until then we should tell the world the things we have to say
They are the words of judgement but not the words of hate
All they do is tell us that we should not be too late
We should live our lives according to our taste
Or else we'll see the writing and know we have gone to waste
Mene mene tekel Uparsin
The words they were written on the wall

God took your kingdom and gave it away
Gave it away, gave it away
God took your kingdom and gave it away
Gave it away, gave it away
 
Time to wake this thread up again. Here's a painfully worn out classic.


Prometheus
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Cover your heaven, Zeus,
With cloudy vapors
And like a boy
beheading thistles
Practice on oaks and mountain peaks--
Still you must leave
My earth intact
And my small hovel, which you did not build,
And this my hearth
Whose glowing heat
You envy me.

I know of nothing more wretched
Under the sun than you gods!
Meagerly you nourish
Your majesty
On dues of sacrifice
And breath of prayer
And would suffer want
But for children and beggars,
Poor hopeful fools.

Once too, a child,
Not knowing where to turn,
I raised bewildered eyes
Up to the sun, as if above there were
An ear to hear my complaint,
A heart like mine
To take pity on the oppressed.

Who helped me
Against the Titans' arrogance?
Who rescued me from death,
From slavery?
Did not my holy and glowing heart,
Unaided, accomplish all?
And did it not, young and good,
Cheated, glow thankfulness
For its safety to him, to the sleeper above?

I pay homage to you? For what?
Have you ever relieved
The burdened man's anguish?
Have you ever assuaged
The frightened man's tears?
Was it not omnipotent Time
That forged me into manhood,
And eternal Fate,
My masters and yours?

Or did you think perhaps
That I should hate this life,
Flee into deserts
Because not all
The blossoms of dream grew ripe?

Here I sit, forming men
In my image,
A race to resemble me:
To suffer, to weep,
To enjoy, to be glad--
And never to heed you,
Like me!


Original:

Prometheus
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Bedecke deinen Himmel, Zeus,
Mit Wolkendunst
Und übe, dem Knaben gleich,
Der Disteln köpft,
An Eichen dich und Bergeshöhn;
Mußt mir meine Erde
Doch lassen stehn
Und meine Hütte, die du nicht gebaut,
Und meinen Herd,
Um dessen Glut
Du mich beneidest.

Ich kenne nichts Ärmeres
Unter der Sonn als euch, Götter!
Ihr nähret kümmerlich
Von Opfersteuern
Und Gebetshauch
Eure Majestät
Und darbtet, wären
Nicht Kinder und Bettler
Hoffnungsvolle Toren.

Da ich ein Kind war,
Nicht wußte, wo aus noch ein,
Kehrt ich mein verirrtes Auge
Zur Sonne, als wenn drüber wär
Ein Ohr, zu hören meine Klage,
Ein Herz wie meins,
Sich des Bedrängten zu erbarmen.

Wer half mir
Wider der Titanen Übermut?
Wer rettete vom Tode mich,
Von Sklaverei?
Hast du nicht alles selbst vollendet,
Heilig glühend Herz?
Und glühtest jung und gut,
Betrogen, Rettungsdank
Dem Schlafenden da droben?

Ich dich ehren? Wofür?
Hast du die Schmerzen gelindert
Je des Beladenen?
Hast du die Tränen gestillet
Je des Geängsteten?
Hat nicht mich zum Manne geschmiedet
Die allmächtige Zeit
Und das ewige Schicksal,
Meine Herrn und deine?

Wähntest du etwa,
Ich sollte das Leben hassen,
In Wüsten fliehen,
Weil nicht alle
Blütenträume reiften?

Hier sitz ich, forme Menschen
Nach meinem Bilde,
Ein Geschlecht, das mir gleich sei,
Zu leiden, zu weinen,
Zu genießen und zu freuen sich,
Und dein nich zu achten,
Wie ich!
 
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