Oh mother, mother, where is happiness ( Read more... )

The gallows in my garden, people say ( Read more... )

Johann Sebastian Bach
Was a master of his Fach:
Nothing could be more kluge
Than his Kunst der Fuge.

What is this life if, full of care ( Read more... )

More triggering poetry, this time with translations ( Read more... )

https://fem-books.livejournal.com/2106545.htmlRead more... )

From a wonderful translation blog by late Dr. Chae-Pyong Song https://jaypsong.blog/Read more... )

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kU4_nS2YDLkRead more... )

NAY, then, what can be done
When love is flown,
When love has passed away?
Sit in the twilight gray,
Thinking how near he was,
Thinking how dear he was,
That is no more, to-day!

How can the day be fair
Love may not share?
How day go by,
Hearing no fond words said,
With no dear kisses shed-
O, how can love be dead,
And yet not I!

Ina

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

W. H. Auden - 1907-1973