A poem by Violet Nicolson, Lawrence Hope, Adela Florence Cory Nicolson (1865 – 1904)
Sad is the Evening: all the level sand
Lies left and lonely, while the restless sea,
Tired of the green caresses of the land,
Withdraws into its own infinity.
But still more sad this white and chilly Dawn
Filling the vacant spaces of the sky,
While little winds blow here and there forlorn
And all the stars, weary of shining, die.
And more than desolate, to wake, to rise,
Leaving the couch, where softly sleeping still,
What through the past night made my heaven, lies;
And looking out across the window sill
See, from the upper window’s vantage ground,
Mankind slip into harness once again,
And wearily resume his daily round
Of love and labour, toil and strife and pain.
How the sad thoughts slip back across the night:
The whole thing seems so aimless and so vain.
What use the raptures, passion and delight,
Burnt out; as though they could not wake again.
The worn-out nerves and weary brain repeat
The question: Whither all these passions tend;–
This curious thirst, so painful and so sweet,
So fierce, so very short-lived, to what end?
Even, if seeking for ourselves, the Race,
The only immortality we know,–
Even if from the flower of our embrace
Some spark should kindle, or some fruit should grow,
What were the use? the gain, to us or it,
That we should cause another You or Me,–
Another life, from our light passion lit,
To suffer like ourselves awhile and die.
What aim, what end indeed? Our being runs
In a closed circle. All we know or see
Tends to assure us that a thousand Suns,
Teeming perchance with life, have ceased to be.
Ah, the grey Dawn seems more than desolate,
And the past night of passion worse than waste,
Love but a useless flower, that soon or late,
Turns to a fruit with bitter aftertaste.
Youth, even Youth, seems futile and forlorn
While the new day grows slowly white above.
Pale and reproachful comes the chilly Dawn
After the fervour of a night of love.
A few random poems:
- Владимир Маяковский – Помогай фронту… (РОСТА №480)
- On Time poem – John Milton poems
- Somebody Has To by Shel Silverstein
- Spider by Sylvia Plath
- Reverie Of Mahomed Akram At The Tamarind Tank
- Come by Sara Teasdale
- Power of Peace by Rixa White
- Владимир Бенедиктов – Обвинение
- Омар Хайям – Даже с самой прекрасной из милых подруг
- The Metropolitan Tower by Sara Teasdale
- Николай Некрасов – Я посягну на неприличность
- Lets go by Vinko Kalinić
- Федор Сологуб – Слепой судьбе противореча
- Sonnet 40: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all by William Shakespeare
- Владимир Маяковский – В мире два класса… (РОСТА №501)
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Heaven and You by Samuel Stephen Wakdok
- Goddess by Samuel Stephen Wakdok
- Ghazal to Pera Belle by Serkan Engin
- Garden of Sprites by Lyndsey Hylton
- Forgiveness by Zaklina (Jacqueline) Filipova- Svekjarovska
- For Aun by Lynne Scott
- Eternity by Samuel Stephen Wakdok
- Come by Samuel Stephen Wakdok
- Before You Returned by Shahida Latif
- Aquí te hubiese amado by Luz del Alba Nicola
- And because Love battles by Pablo Neruda
- An Untold Tale by Shahida Latif
- After the Last Glacier is Gone by Benjamin Alva Polley
- A Lover’s Prayer by St Antoine de la Vuadi
- Orlando Furioso Canto 19 by Ludovico Ariosto
- Orlando Furioso Canto 18 by Ludovico Ariosto
- His Insufficiency Of Praise by Luis Vaz de Camoes
- Light and Darkness
- You Are One For Whom Ma Heart Really Cares by Miraj Patel
- World’s Sweetest Sister Of Mine by Miraj Patel
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Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Violet Nicolson ( 1865 – 1904); otherwise known as Adela Florence Nicolson (née Cory), was an English poetess who wrote under the pseudonym of Laurence Hope, however she became known as Violet Nicolson. In the early 1900s, she became a best-selling author. She committed suicide and is buried in Madras, now Chennai, India.