We present this work in honor of the 380th anniversary of the poet’s death.
The world’s an Inn; and I her guest.
I eat; I drink; I take my rest.
My hostess, nature, does deny me
Nothing, wherewith she can supply me;
Where, having stayed a while, I pay
Her lavish bills, and go my way.
We present this work in honor of the 325th anniversary of the poet’s death.
So the old year remains behind forever.
As the sun’s course divides, so it cuts off the times!
How old age drags us so quickly into the grave!
That means poorly lived the few moments,
In which much annoyance mixed with bad luck
And nothing but instability revealed itself!
That probably means badly used when the walking stick
Never gets out of our hands when we use cunning and snares
Stumbling in the night, where there is little light
And light, which is not always safe to follow.
For if the Most High does not want to show his own light,
That, when we lose our way, touches our minds and eyes,
Is all light a light that leads to damnation.
Oh, the time is too short! Oh, the journey is too difficult!
We present this work in honor of the 295th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Thou sorrow, venom Elfe:
Is this thy play,
To spin a web out of thyselfe
To Catch a Fly?
For Why?
I saw a pettish wasp
Fall foule therein:
Whom yet thy Whorle pins did not clasp
Lest he should fling
His sting.
But as affraid, remote
Didst stand hereat,
And with thy little fingers stroke
And gently tap
His back.
Thus gently him didst treate
Lest he should pet,
And in a froppish, aspish heate
Should greatly fret
Thy net.
Whereas the silly Fly,
Caught by its leg
Thou by the throate tookst hastily
And ‘hinde the head
Bite Dead.
This goes to pot, that not
Nature doth call.
Strive not above what strength hath got,
Lest in the brawle
Thou fall.
This Frey seems thus to us.
Hells Spider gets
His intrails spun to whip Cords thus
And wove to nets
And sets.
To tangle Adams race
In’s stratigems
To their Destructions, spoil’d, made base
By venom things,
Damn’d Sins.
But mighty, Gracious Lord
Communicate
Thy Grace to breake the Cord, afford
Us Glorys Gate
And State.
We’l Nightingaile sing like
When pearcht on high
In Glories Cage, thy glory, bright,
And thankfully,
For joy.
My Queen, how much longer must I stay
Outside your door when you hold full sway
O’er my heart. Mis’ry is all I feel
I suffer anguish when you’re away
And every night I toss and turn
Your heartless wiles will kill me one day
Oh Abu Souar! Rub your bird with oil to excite him
and mount a steed that can catch up with mine.
Under me is a thoroughbred that brings tears to my eyes
as he dashes forward into the wind.
No sooner had I let my bird go
than he caught a houbara and a red hare!
I chased them away with tough riders, though,
great hunters that deserve not the slightest blame.
I search the desert, then return home loaded with game.
My turkli and I enjoy wintering in the Sahara.
We present this work in honor of Shrove Tuesday.
Who would true Valour see
Let him come hither;
One here will Constant be,
Come Wind, come Weather.
There’s no Discouragement,
Shall make him once Relent,
His first avow’d Intent,
To be a Pilgrim.
Who so beset him round,
With dismal Storys,
Do but themselves Confound;
His Strength the more is.
No Lyon can him fright,
He’l with a Gyant Fight,
But he will have a right,
To be a Pilgrim.
Hobgoblin, nor foul Fiend,
Can daunt his Spirit:
He knows, he at the end,
Shall Life Inherit.
Then Fancies fly away,
He’l fear not what men say,
He’l labour Night and Day,
To be a Pilgrim.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 415th birthday.
I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?
Yet now I think on’t, let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
For th’hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
O love, where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?
But love is such a mystery,
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I’m best resolv’d,
I then am most in doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;
For I’ll believe I have her heart
As much as she hath mine.
We present this work in honor of the 400th anniversary of the poet’s death.
The tired thought
of the importunate pain
look for the best state
(if in love there is good condition).
That a chest so hurt
nor does glory feed him,
nor does the pain torment him,
how high the memory,
nor does he feel pain, nor glory,
neither good nor evil sustains him.
We go to the country to welcome the sorrow of the country, because we are deprived of our feet, we go with our heads
We have gone this way a hundred times and we are going once again, we are going to welcome Sagar.
Since it is not possible to walk, we turn to Dostnameh and go with the wings of a pigeon
Now, fresh anxiety is falling on my hair, a breeze is blowing, my leaves are falling from Shiraz.
Eisham’s lips sing to every age, but Shionam’s tongue pours a thousand praises every time
I have a heart that says salt in the embrace of the ointment for its sore wounds and yawns after yawns.
I wonder if the patterns of our patience will come true, that the love of this plan will pour immeasurably.
We present this work in honor of the 350th anniversary of the poet’s death.
In gardens sweet each flower mark did I,
How they did spring, bud, blow, wither and die.
With that, contemplating of man’s short stay,
Saw man like to those flowers pass away.
Yet built he houses, thick and strong and high,
As if he’d live to all Eternity.
Hoards up a mass of wealth, yet cannot fill
His empty mind, but covet will he still.
To gain or keep, such falsehood will he use!
Wrong, right or truth—no base ways will refuse.
I would not blame him could he death out keep,
Or ease his pains or be secure of sleep:
Or buy Heaven’s mansions—like the gods become,
And with his gold rule stars and moon and sun:
Command the winds to blow, seas to obey,
Level their waves and make their breezes stay.
But he no power hath unless to die,
And care in life is only misery.
This care is but a word, an empty sound,
Wherein there is no soul nor substance found;
Yet as his heir he makes it to inherit,
And all he has he leaves unto this spirit.
To get this Child of Fame and this bare word,
He fears no dangers, neither fire nor sword:
All horrid pains and death he will endure,
Or any thing can he but fame procure.
O man, O man, what high ambition grows
Within his brain, and yet how low he goes!
To be contented only with a sound,
Wherein is neither peace nor life nor body found.
Poets Corner 