"Sonety, jaká slast..."
Ivan Blatný


Antonín Sova - Zamyšlení - moderní sonet ze sb. Vybouřené smutky (1897)

20. února 2009 v 8:00 | Antonín Sova
Zamyšlení stálo v mé duši jak měsíc nad jezery,
parodista dnů. Ocelově chladné ticho
zvučelo v drátech přepínajících dimenze mé bytosti
od jižních pólů až k severním, kde myšlenky zhasínaly.

Elegik, jenž se již vyplakal nejsmutnější písní,
bojovník, jenž nemoh zadržet dlaní smrtelné rány,
milenec zhnusený objetím po posledním triumfu pudů,
toť já jsem, v pustině života, v tupém zamyšlení.

Krev, kdysi elektrizovaná a prolnutá žhavostí slunce,
šumí teď tiše, kolujíc vychladlá v pozdních měsících,
v nichž dozrálo, co mohlo dozrát, a dokvetlo, co mohlo kvésti.

Zamyšlení stojí v mé duši jak měsíc nad jezery,
parodujíc mou touhu po velkých snech a budíc mou úzkost.
Mé srdce však, mozek můj hladoví, den ze dne, rok k roku.

Převzato odtud.

Příslovečně určený sonet - pomůcka pro ty, kdo si neumějí zapamatovat druhy příslovečného určení

19. února 2009 v 8:00 | Ondřej Hanus

Jonáš Hájek - Metař - moderní varianta francouzského sonetu

18. února 2009 v 8:00 | Jonáš Hájek
Chci vidět sopku, když metá,
tu okounící bohyni. Já-metař,
chovanec v dresu pražské tmy,
mám stále před očima Teklu

anebo Pompeje, zrovna když Vesuv
hřmí. (Dokonale mě zklidní
i Etna ve své prvotřídní

akci.) - Tady? Jen výbuch bez otřesu,
a když už otřes, tak zas bez žáru.
Popel mi přihrává k poháru,

při narážkách do papundeklu
rukama dotýkat se smí,
a zleva láva, zprava lahváč, vstřelím
svou vítězně recyklovanou skřeli!

Převzato odtud.

Helen Maria Williamsová (1761 – 1827) - 16 sonetů anglické spisovatelky a překladatelky období romantismu

17. února 2009 v 8:00 | Helen Maria Williamsová
Sonnet To Hope

O, ever skilled to wear the form we love!
To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,--
That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray,
Which once with dear illusions charm'd my eye,--
O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die;
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!

*I commence the Sonnets with that to HOPE, from a predilection in its favour, for which I have a proud reason: it is that of Mr. Wordsworth, who lately honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years.

Sonnet To Twilight

Meek Twilight! soften the declining day,
And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves;
When o'er the mountain slow descends the ray
That gives to silence and to night the groves.
Ah, let the happy court the morning still,
When, in her blooming loveliness arrayed,
She bids fresh beauty light the vale or hill,
And rapture warble in the vocal shade.
Sweet is the odour of the morning's flower,
And rich in melody her accents rise;
Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour
At which her blossoms close, her music dies:
For then, while languid Nature droops her head,
She wakes the tear 'tis luxury to shed.

Sonnet on reading Burn's "Mountain Daisy."

While soon the "garden's flaunting flowers" decay,
And, scatter'd on the earth, neglected lie,
The "Mountain Daisy," cherish'd by the ray
A poet drew from heav'n, shall never die.
Ah! like that lovely flower the poet rose!
'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale;
He felt each storm that on the mountain blows,
Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale.
By Genius in her native vigour nurst,
On Nature with impassion'd look he gazed,
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst
Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blaz'd.
Shield from rude sorrow, SCOTIA ! shield thy bard:--
His heav'n-taught numbers Fame herself will guard.

Sonnet to the Moon

The glitt'ring colours of the day are fled;
Come, melancholy orb! that dwell'st with night,
Come! and o'er earth thy wand'ring lustre shed,
Thy deepest shadow, and thy softest light;
To me congenial is the gloomy grove,
When with faint light the sloping uplands shine;
That gloom, those pensive rays alike I love,
Whose sadness seems in sympathy with mine!
But most for this, pale orb! thy beams are dear,
For this, benignant orb! I hail thee most:
That while I pour the unavailing tear,
And mourn that hope to me in youth is lost,
Thy light can visionary thoughts impart,
And lead the Muse to soothe a suff'ring heart.

Sonnet to Peace of Mind

Sweet Peace! ah, lead me from the thorny dale,
Where desolate my wand'ring steps have fled;
Far from the sunny paths which others tread,
While youth enlivens, and while joys prevail.
Then I no more shall vanished hopes bewail,
No more the fruitless tear shall love to shed,
When pensive eve her cherish'd gloom has spread,
And day's bright tints, like my short pleasures, fail!
Yet lead me not where blooms the glowing rose,
But lead me where the cypress branches wave;
Thou hast a shelt'ring cell for cureless woes,
A home of refuge, where no tempests rave;
There would my weary heart in youth repose,
Beneath the turf that shrouds an early grave.

Sonnet to Mrs. Siddons

Siddons! the Muse, for many a joy refin'd,
Feelings which ever seem too swiftly fled,
For those delicious tears she loves to shed,
Around thy brow the wreaths of praise would bind;
But can her feeble notes thy praise unfold?
Repeat the tones each changing passion gives?
Or mark where nature in thy action lives,--
Where, in thy pause, she speaks a pang untold?
When fierce ambition steels thy daring breast,
When from thy frantic look our glance recedes?
Or, oh, divine enthusiast! when, opprest
By mournful love, that eye of softness pleads?
The sunbeam all can feel, but who can trace
The instant light, and catch the radiant grace?

Sonnet to Mrs. Bates

O thou, whose melody the heart obeys,
Thou, who can'st all its subject passions move,
Whose notes to heav'n the list'ning soul can raise,
Can thrill with pity, or can melt with love!
Happy! whom nature lent this native charm,
Angelic tones, that shed, with magic power,
A sweeter pleasure o'er the social hour:
The breast to softness soothe, to virtue warm;
But yet more happy, that thy life as clear
From discord as thy perfect cadence flows;
That, tun'd to sympathy, thy faithful tear
In mild accordance falls for others' woes;
That all the tender, pure affections bind,
In chains of harmony, thy willing mind!

Sonnet to Expression

Expression, child of soul! I fondly trace
Thy strong enchantments, when the poet's lyre,
The painter's pencil, catch thy sacred fire,
And beauty wakes for thee her touching grace!
But from this frighted glance thy form avert,
When horror checks thy tear, thy struggling sigh,
When frenzy rolls in thy impassion'd eye,
Or guilt sits heavy on thy lab'ring heart;
Nor ever let my shudd'ring fancy hear
The wasting groan, or view the pallid look
Of him* the muses lov'd, when hope forsook
His spirit, vainly to the muses dear!
For, charm'd with heav'nly song, this mournful breast
Laments the power of verse could give despair no rest.


Sonnet to Love

Ah, Love! ere yet I knew thy fatal power,
Bright glow'd the colour of my youthful days,
As on the sultry zone the torrid rays,
That paint the broad-leav'd plantain's glossy bower:
Calm was my bosom as this silent hour,
When o'er the deep, scarce heard, the zephyr strays,
'Midst the cool tamarinds indolently plays,
Nor from the orange shakes its od'rous flower:--
But ah! since Love has all my heart possest,
That desolated heart what sorrows tear!
Disturb'd, and wild as ocean's troubled breast,
When the hoarse tempest of the night is there!
Yet my complaining spirit asks no rest,
This bleeding bosom cherishes despair.

* This and the seven following Sonnets were inserted, several years ago, in a translation I made of Bernardin de Saint Pierre's novel of Paul and Virginia , while I was in prison during the reign of terror, and which served to cheat the days of captivity of their weary length. The translation was, I believe, never published in England, where the Sonnets are little known. They are adapted to the peculiar situations and scenery of the work.

Sonnet to Disappointment

Pale disappointment! at thy freezing name
Chill fears in every shiv'ring vein I prove;
My sinking pulse almost forgets to move,
And life almost forsakes my languid frame.
Yet thee, relentless nymph! no more I blame:
Why do my thoughts 'midst vain illusions rove?
Why gild the charms of friendship and of love
With the warm glow of fancy's purple flame?
When ruffling winds have some bright fane o'erthrown,
Which shone on painted clouds, or seem'd to shine,
Shall the fond gazer dream for him alone
Those clouds were sable, and at fate repine?--
I feel, alas! the fault is all my own,
And ah, the cruel punishment is mine!

Sonnet to Simplicity

Nymph of the desert! on this lonely shore,
Simplicity, thy blessings still are mine,
And all thou canst not give I pleas'd resign,
For all beside can soothe my soul no more.
I ask no lavish heaps to swell my store,
And purchase pleasures far remote from thine:
Ye joys, for which the race of Europe pine,
Ah, not for me your studied grandeur pour;
Let me where yon tall cliffs are rudely pil'd,
Where towers the Palm amidst the mountain trees,
Where pendant from the steep, with graces wild,
The blue Liana floats upon the breeze,
Still haunt those bold recesses, Nature's child,
Where thy majestic charms my spirit seize!

Sonnet to the Strawberry

The Strawberry blooms upon its lowly bed,
Plant of my native soil!--the Lime may fling
More potent fragrance on the zephyr's wing,
The milky Cocoa richer juices shed,
The white Guava lovelier blossoms spread--
But not, like thee, to fond remembrance bring
The vanished hours of life's enchanting spring;
Short calendar of joys for ever fled!
Thou bid'st the scenes of childhood rise to view,
The wild wood-path which fancy loves to trace;
Where, veil'd in leaves, thy fruit of rosy hue
Lurk'd on its pliant stem with modest grace.
But ah! when thought would later years renew,
Alas, successive sorrows crowd the space!

Sonnet to the Curlew

Sooth'd by the murmurs on the sea-beat shore,
His dun-grey plumage floating to the gale,
The Curlew blends his melancholy wail
With those hoarse sounds the rushing waters pour.
Like thee, congenial bird! my steps explore
The bleak lone sea-beach, or the rocky dale,--
And shun the orange bower, the myrtle vale,
Whose gay luxuriance suits my soul no more.
I love the ocean's broad expanse, when drest
In limpid clearness, or when tempests blow:
When the smooth currents on its placid breast
Flow calm, as my past moments us'd to flow;
Or when its troubled waves refuse to rest,
And seem the symbol of my present woe.

Sonnet to the Torrid Zone

Pathway of light! o'er thy empurpled zone,
With lavish charms, perennial summer strays;
Soft 'midst thy spicy groves the zephyr plays,
While far around the rich perfumes are thrown;
The Amadavid-bird for thee alone
Spreads his gay plumes, that catch thy vivid rays;
For thee the gems with liquid lustre blaze,
And Nature's various wealth is all thy own.
But ah! not thine is Twilight's doubtful gloom,
Those mild gradations, mingling day with night;
Here instant darkness shrouds thy genial bloom,
Nor leaves my pensive soul that ling'ring light,
When musing Mem'ry would each trace resume
Of fading pleasures in successive flight.

Sonnet to the Calbassia Tree

Sublime Calbassia! luxuriant tree,
How soft the gloom thy bright-hued foliage throws!
While from thy pulp a healing balsam flows,
Whose power the suff'ring wretch from pain can free:
My pensive footsteps ever turn to thee!
Since oft, while musing on my lasting woes,
Beneath thy flowery white-bells I repose,
Symbol of Friendship dost thou seem to me;
For thus has Friendship cast her soothing shade
O'er my unshelter'd bosom's keen distress,
Thus sought to heal the wounds which Love has made,
And temper bleeding sorrow's sharp excess!
Ah! not in vain she lends her balmy aid--
The agonies she cannot cure are less!

Sonnet to the White Bird of the Tropic

Bird of the Tropic! thou, who lov'st to stray
Where thy long pinions sweep the sultry Line,
Or mark'st the bounds which torrid beams confine
By thy averted course, that shuns the ray
Oblique, enamour'd of sublimer day:
Oft on yon cliff thy folded plumes recline,
And drop those snowy feathers Indians twine,
To crown the warrior's brow with honours gay.
O'er trackless oceans what impels thy wing?
Does no soft instinct in thy soul prevail?
No sweet affection to thy bosom cling,
And bid thee oft thy absent nest bewail?--
Yet thou again to that dear spot canst spring,
But I no more my long-lost home shall hail!

This edition may be copied freely by individuals for personal use, research, and teaching (including distribution to classes) as long as this statement of availability is included in the text. It may be linked to by internet editions of all kinds.

Převzato odtud.

George Herbert - třináct sonetů anglického metafyzického básníka

13. února 2009 v 8:00 | George Herbert
A Sonnet
(Pozn. Dvojitý sonet, který George Herbert poslal z Cambridge své matce jako novoroční dárek.)

My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee,
Wherewith whole shoals of martyrs once did burn,
Besides their other flames? Doth poetry
Wear Venus' livery? only serve her turn?
Why are not sonnets made of thee? and lays
Upon thine altar burnt? Cannot thy love
Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise
As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove
Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight?
Or, since thy ways are deep, and still the fame,
Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name!
Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might
Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose
Than that, which one day, worms may chance refuse.

Sure Lord, there is enough in thee to dry
Oceans of ink; for, as the Deluge did
Cover the earth, so doth thy Majesty:
Each cloud distills thy praise, and doth forbid
Poets to turn it to another use.
Roses and lilies speak thee; and to make
A pair of cheeks of them, is thy abuse
Why should I women's eyes for crystal take?
Such poor invention burns in their low mind
Whose fire is wild, and doth not upward go
To praise, and on thee, Lord, some ink bestow.
Open the bones, and you shall nothing find
In the best face but filth; when Lord, in thee
The beauty lies in the discovery.

Holy Baptism

As he that sees a dark and shady grove,
Stays not, but looks beyond it on the sky
So when I view my sins, mine eyes remove
More backward still, and to that water fly,
Which is above the heav'ns, whose spring and rent
Is in my dear Redeemer's pierced side.
O blessed streams! either ye do prevent
And stop our sins from growing thick and wide,

Or else give tears to drown them, as they grow.
In you Redemption measures all my time,
And spreads the plaster equal to the crime:
You taught the book of life my name, that so,

Whatever future sins should me miscall,
Your first acquaintance might discredit all.


Prayer, the Church's banquet, Angels' age,
God's breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth;
Engine against th' Almighty, sinner's tower,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-days'-world transposing in an hour,
A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;
Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss,
Exalted manna, gladness of the best,
Heaven in ordinary, man well dressed,
The milky way, the bird of Paradise,
Church bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood,
The land of spices, something understood.


Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us: then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws; they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,

Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,

Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.

Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.

The Sinner

Lord, how I am all ague, when I seek
What I have treasured in my memory!
Since, if my soul make even with the week,
Each seventh note by right is due to thee.
I find there quarries of piled vanities,
But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture
To shew their face, since cross to thy decrees:
There the circumference earth is, heav'n the center.
In so much dregs the quintessence is small:
The spirit and good extract of my heart
Comes to about the many hundredth part.
Yet, Lord, restore thine image, hear my call:
And though my hard heart scarce to thee can groan,
Remember that thou once didst write in stone.


Having been tenant long to a rich Lord,
Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,
And make a suit unto Him, to afford
A new small-rented lease, and cancel th' old.
In heaven at His manor I Him sought:
They told me there, that He was lately gone
About some land, which He had dearly bought
Long since on Earth, to take possession.
I straight returned, and knowing His great birth,
Sought Him accordingly in great resorts--
In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts:
At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth
Of thieves and murderers; there I Him espied,
Who straight, "Your suit is granted," said, and died.

Joseph's Coat

Wounded I sing, tormented I indite,
Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest:
Sorrow hath chang'd its note: such is his will
Who changeth all things, as him pleaseth best.
For well he knows, if but one grief and smart
Among my many had his full career,
Sure it would carry with it ev'n my heart,
And both would run until they found a bier
To fetch the body; both being due to grief.
But he hath spoil'd the race; and giv'n to anguish
One of Joy's coats, 'ticing it with relief
To linger in me, and together languish.
I live to shew his power, who once did bring
My joys to weep, and now my griefs to sing.

The Son

Let foreign nations of their language boast,
What fine variety each tongue affords:
I like our language, as our men and coast;
Who cannot dress it well, want with, not words.
How neatly do we give one only name
To parents' issue and the sun's bright star.
A son is light and fruit; a fruitful flame
Chafing the father's dimness, carried far
From the first man in th' East, to fresh and new
Western discov'ries of posterity.
So in one word our Lord's humility
We turn upon him in a sense most true;
For what Christ once in humbleness began,
We him in glory call, The Son of Man.


All after pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I, both tir'd, body and mind,
With full cry of affections, quite astray;
I took up in the next inn I could find.

There when I came, whom found I but my dear,
My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to Him, ready there
To be all passengers' most sweet relief?

O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapt in night's mantle, stole into a manger,
Since my dark sould and brutish is Thy right,
To Man of all beasts be not thou a stranger:

Furnish and deck my soul, that thou mayst have
A better lodging than a rack or grave.

The Answer

My comforts drop and melt like snow:
I shake my head, and all the thoughts and ends,
Which my fierce youth did bandy, fall and flow
Like leaves about me, or like summer-friends
Flies of estates and sun-shine. But to all,
Who think me eager, hot, and undertaking,
But in my prosecutions slack and small;
As a young exhalation, newly waking,
Scorns his first bed of dirt, and means the sky;
But cooling by the way, grows pursy and slow,
And settling to a cloud, doth live and die
In that dark state of tears: to all, that so
Show me, and set me, I have one reply,
Which they that know the rest, know more than I.

The Holy Scriptures


Oh Book! infinite sweetness! let my heart
Suck ev'ry letter, and a honey gain,
Precious for any grief in any part;
To clear the breast, to mollify all pain.

Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make
A full eternity: thou art a mass
Of strange delights, where we may wish and take.
Ladies, look here; this is the thankful glass,

That mends the looker's eyes: this is the well
That washes what it shows. Who can endear
Thy praise too much? thou art heav'n's Lidger here,
Working against the states of death and hell.

Thou art joy's handsel: heav'n lies flat in thee,
Subject to ev'ry mounter's bended knee.


Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glory!
Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the story.

This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do match a potion,
These three make up some Christians' destiny.

Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in ev'ry thing
Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.

Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss
This book of stars lights to eternal bliss.

Ivan Blatný - sonety ze sb. Stará bydliště (Petrov, 2002)

11. února 2009 v 8:00 | Ivan Blatný
Stará bydliště
6, Brunswick Gardens, Kensington

Maqui, můj kocourku, co děláš, ještě žiješ?
Musíš být velmi stár a znaven, jak je ti?
Je ještě v knihovně ta krásná poezie,
jsou ještě v knihovně Štolbovy paměti?

Brunšvické zahrady. Princ Albert ještě žije,
v Hyde Parku, v Kensingtnu, zde v těchto zahradách.
A žije starý dvůr, a žije Viktorie,
umíme setřít prach, umíme setřít prach.

Žije jak Chitussi, jak Štolba na jevišti,
žije jak minulé, žije jak všichni příští,
žije, jak v Anglii ožívá národ náš.

Pouť budoucí je tvá, zbavena zemské tíhy,
pouť budoucí je tvá, obrazy, básně, knihy,
pouť budoucí je tvá, a ty ji uhlídáš.

Báseň Jendovi a Hele Šmardovým

Trošku psát česky znova,
chybí mi česká slova,
peří a lupení
těch krátkých letních dní.

Kůň kluše, kovář ková,
v měknoucím soumraku lípa je fialová.
Večerní procházka. Půjdu si sednout k ní.
A broučci spí a spí.

Tam dole u potoka Karafiát je znal.
Je noc, je temná noc a sovy mají bál.
Zůstane navždy v srdci.

Jdu lesem, proutí praská,
já a pes jménem Láska.
Hudeček: Noční chodci.

Klementu Bochořákovi

Když člověk zapálí po práci cigaretu,
úlevný lehký smích se vkrádá do údů.
Úlevný lehký smích, a kuřák dává světu
přiznání dobrých chvil, dobrého osudu.

Bzukote nádraží a telegrafních drátů,
pošli mi ještě tam, kde Halas kouříval,
pošli mi pozdravy k Březinům do Kunštátu,
na nízký Anaberk, jen o kousíček dál.

Vydech jsem modrý kouř a modrý kouř se nese
do vašich Pisárek. Myslím si, že jsem v lese,
vracím se zpátky zas brněnskou tramvají.

Jedeme do remíz a kolem výstaviště,
kde vzadu za věží je fotbalové hřiště,
jedeme na hřbitov a dívky mávají.


Dostal jsem balíček, oříšky, čokoládu,
kouřím a píši si, už bude nový rok.
Ten starý znavený nechejme zemřít vzadu,
vítejme novou krev do kolébavých slok.

Zas budu plést a rýt, zas půjdu na zahradu,
zas budu při práci sledovat jejich tok.
Sonety, jaká slast, verš za verš něžně kladu,
pomalý, rytmický a vážný jejich krok.

Zde máme nadílku až na Boží hod ráno,
co dáš mi Gertrudo, co dáš mi Mariano?
Mé múzy dejte mi hrst nových, svěžích slov.

Snad někdo napíše jak Rilke Kappusovi,
snad někdo napíše a ocení mne, kdo ví?
Snad budem ještě žít, než půjdem na hřbitov.

Převzato odtud.

Rupert Brook - šestisonetový válečný cyklus "1915"

10. února 2009 v 8:00 | Rupert Brook
(Pozn. Brook zemřel - na otravu krve - dřív, než "mohl" do zákopů; proto jsou jeho sonety takové, jaké jsou.)

The Treasure

When colour goes home into the eyes,
And lights that shine are shut again,
With dancing girls and sweet bird's cries
Behind the gateways of the brain;
And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close
The rainbow and the rose:-

Still may Time hold some golden space
Where I'll unpack that scented store
Of song and flower and sky and face,
And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,
Musing upon them: as a mother, who
Has watched her children all the rich day through,
Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,
When children sleep, ere night.

August 1914.

I. Peace

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

II. Safety

Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Assured in the dark tides of the world at rest,
And heard our word, ' Who is so safe as we?'
We have found safety with all things undying,
The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,
The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,
And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.
We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.
We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,
Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

III. The Dead

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.

IV. The Dead

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.

V. The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Převzato odtud.

William Wordsworth - báseň, kterou tento anglický romantik debutoval, a to ještě před svými 17. narozeninami, pod pseudonymem "Axiologus"

9. února 2009 v 8:00 | William Wordsworth
Sonnet on seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams weep at a Tale of Distress

She wept. - Life's purple tide began to flow
In languid streams through every thrilling vein;
Dim were my swimming eyes - my pulse beat slow,
And my full heart was swell'd to dear delicious pain.
Life left my loaded heart, and closing eye;
A sigh recall'd the wanderer to my breast;
Dear was the pulse of life, and dear the sigh
That call'd the wanderer home, and home to rest.
That tear proclaims - in thee each virtue dwells,
And bright will shine in misery's midnight hour;
As the soft star of dewy evening tells
What radiant fires were drown'd by day's malignant pow'r,
That only wait the darkness of the night
To chear the wand'ring wretch with hospitable light.

European Magazine 11 (March 1787)

Převzato odtud.

Otokar Březina - čtyři básně z cyklu "jinošovských sonetů ze vsi" (cca r. 1888)

8. února 2009 v 8:00 | Otokar Březina

Já k oknu sedl kouře cigaretu
a zamyšleně před sebe se díval,
kol mojí hlavy dýmu mrak se stmíval,
a duch můj voněl k upomínek květu.

A pojednou - snad z myšlenek těch letu
neb dýmu modrý zavinil to příval -
před zrakem mojím obraz dívky splýval,
dvé na mě špule usměvavých retů…

Jak krása věčně tmavý vlas jí kouzlí!
A líbat, líbat, líbat svůdně volá
těch ňader dvé, jež pod krajkou se kouzlí.

Jak v blahém snu se slastí hlava točí…
Já odfouk dým… Ó marnost, marnost holá!
Jen prázdný soumrak mhouří na mě oči.

V neděli

Půl devátá… A zvoník k věži kráčí -
a brzo zvon se vážný rozhlaholí…
A zanedlouho zblízka, ze vůkolí
vše davem pestrým v kostelík se stáčí…

Ten modlí se, kéž Bůh mu chléb dát ráčí,
tam vesničan zas podepřen svou holí
se modlí tiše za úrodu polí,
tam dívka v žertu, onde žena v pláči…

A nevysoké kostelíčka krovy
se zachvívají varhan zvučným tónem,
a v srdcí úhor padá rosa spásy…

Ó básníku, tys roven zvoníkovi,
a poesie mohutným je zvonem,
jenž lidi svádí ve chrám věční krásy! -

Nokturno na vsi

Noc podzimní se tmavým dívá okem
a ani hvězdy v zřítelnici nemá…
Jak spánku obět zabitá a němá
spí celá víska v klidu přehlubokém.

Jen z mojí jizby nesmělým svým krokem
zář lampy letí okénkama dvěma…
S ní vítr mrazivý, když mává perutěma,
jest ještě spánku nezmoženým sokem.

A v klidu tom dav psů, jenž statky hlídá,
tam po vsi vyje, kňučí si a stýská,
a z druhých vsí mu sbor zas odpovídá…

A občas s větrem hučí to a výská! - -
Co to?… Aj, kolem vesnic plouží se to bída
a psi ji cítí, že už k chatám blízká…

První sníh

Aj, první sníh! Zem šat má sněhobílý
jak zimy nevěsta - však smutná, bledá…
sta stromů k nebi suché ruce zvedá
a prosí o pomoc, leč marně kvílí…

A jízda větrů po krajině pílí
a k sňatku tomu svědky - mrazy hledá,
a s nebes výšin mlha tmavošedá
jak závoj v lože svatební se chýlí…

Aj, první sníh! Vše jednotvárné kolem -
Ó zemi smutná, kam tvá prchla krása,
jež vábila nás lesem, luhem, polem?

Aj, první sníh! Jak duší to as víří,
když v tmavý vlas nám smutné stáří střásá
svým dechem první sněhobílé chmýří? - -

Z doslovu: "Iluse. V neděli. Nokturno na vsi. První sníh. Básně zachoval Jaromír Herle; patří jistě k cyklu Březinových jinošovských sonetů ze vsi, kterými se koncem r. 1887 nebo počátkem r. 1888 marně pokoušel dobýti Sládkova "Lumíra"." (Miloslav Hýsek)

Elinor Wylie - Wild Peaches - čtyřsonetový cyklus americké básnířky z přelomu 19. a 20. století

6. února 2009 v 10:00 | Elinor Wylie

WHEN the world turns completely upside down
You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore;
We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town,
You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown
Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour.
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,
We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.

The winter will be short, the summer long,
The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
Tasting of cider and of scuppernong;
All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall
Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.


The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass
Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.
The misted early mornings will be cold;
The little puddles will be roofed with glass.
The sun, which burns from copper into brass,
Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold
Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold
Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.

Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover;
A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;
The spring begins before the winter's over.
By February you may find the skins
Of garter snakes and water moccasins
Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.


When April pours the colours of a shell
Upon the hills, when every little creek
Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake
In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek
Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak,
We shall live well -- we shall live very well.

The months between the cherries and the peaches
Are brimming cornucopias which spill
Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black;
Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches
We'll trample bright persimmons, while you kill
Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback.


Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones
There's something in this richness that I hate.
I love the look, austere, immaculate,
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There's something in my very blood that owns
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,
A thread of water, churned to milky spate
Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.

I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,
Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves;
That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath,
Summer, so much too beautiful to stay,
Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves,
And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.