A. B. Schmidt - The Needed Aspects of Poetry (WIP) [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice;
In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen Music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought’st against Him; but hast vainly striven;
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by the.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which is still left!
For, high-soul’d Maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain Floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!-William Wordsworth


"On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer"

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
        And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
        Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
        That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
        Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
        When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
        He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise—
        Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
-John Keats

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones,
Forget not: in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.-John Milton


Márgarét, are you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow's spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
-Gerard Manley Hopkins