Old with a young heart, witty, kind, whose mind, dipped in much honey with now gall, imparted nothing bitter in your whole life. Nepotianus, comfort to my heart, partaking as much in games as serious work: when silent, you’d outdo Amyclas in speechlessness: Ulysses—who left the Sirens singing their enchantments— could not leave you when you were talking: honest and modest, moderate, thrifty, abstemious, eloquent, in style yielding place to no orator: debater approaching the Stoic Cleanthes: knowing well by heart Scaurus and Probus, your memory greater than Cineas’s of Epirus: friend table-companion and frequent guest— too seldom, for you stimulated my mind. No one gave counsel with so pure a heart or hid confidences with deeper secrecy. With the honor of an illustrious governorship conferred, having lived through the changes of ninety years, leaving two children, you meet your death, with much grief to your family, as to me.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 220th birthday.
Tomorrow, at dawn, when the countryside brightens, I will depart. You see, I know that you wait for me. I will go through the wood, I will go past the mountains. I cannot remain far from you any longer.
I will walk, eyes set upon my thoughts, Seeing nothing around me and hearing no sound, Alone, unknown, back bent, hands crossed, Sorrowful, and for me, day will be as night.
I will not watch the evening gold fall, Nor the distant sails going down to Harfleur, And, when I arrive, I will put on your grave A bouquet of green holly and heather in bloom.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 400th birthday.
A love of heavenly beauty does not preclude A proper love for earthly pulchritude; Our senses are quite rightly captivated By perfect works our Maker has created. Some glory clings to all that Heaven has made; In you, all Heaven’s marvels are displayed. On that fair face such beauties are displayed. On that fair face such beauties have been lavished, The eyes are dazzled and the heart is ravished; How could I look on you, O flawless creature, And not adore the Author of all Nature, Feeling a love both passionate and pure For you, his triumph of self-portraiture? At first, I trembled lest that love should be A subtle snare that Hell had laid for me; I vowed to flee the sight of you, eschewing A rapture that might prove my soul’s undoing; But soon, fair being, I became aware That my deep passion could be made to square With rectitude, and with my bounden duty. I thereupon surrendered to your beauty. It is, I know, presumptuous on my part To bring you this poor offering of my heart, And it is not my merit, heaven knows, But your compassion on which my hopes repose. You are my peace, my solace, my salvation; On you depends my bliss—or desolation; I bide your judgment and, as you think best, I shall be either miserable or blest. I may be pious, but I’m human too: With your celestial charms before his eyes, A man has not the power to be wise. I know such words sound strangely, coming from me, But I’m no angel, nor was meant to be, And if you blame my passion, you must needs Reproach as well the charms on which it feeds. Your loveliness I had no sooner seen Than you became my soul’s unrivalled queen; Before your seraph glance, divinely sweet, My heart’s defenses crumbled in defeat, And nothing fasting, prayer, or tears might do Could stay my spirit from adoring you. My eyes, my sighs have told you in the past What now my lips make bold to say at last, And if, in your great goodness, you will deign To look upon your slave, and ease his pain— If, in compassion for my soul’s distress, You’ll stoop to comfort my unworthiness, I’ll raise to you, in thanks for that sweet manna, An endless hymn, an infinite hosanna. With me, of course, there need be no anxiety, No fear of scandal or of notoriety. These young court gallants, whom all the ladies fancy, Are vain in speech, in action rash and chancy; When they succeed in love, the world soon knows it; No favor’s granted them but they disclose it And by the looseness of their tongues profane The very altar where their hearts have lain. Men of my sort, however, love discreetly, And one may trust our reticence completely. My keen concern for my good name insures The absolute security of yours; In short, I offer you, my dear Elmire, Love without scandal, pleasure without fear.
Whose name will sound among the fields? Whose battle-cries will grind the grain? Once, learned men and layfolk both swore Basque and shouted English oaths: “Help, Holyhead!” “Saint George, to me!” were then in fashion, for we feared the noble deeds their troops had done. A new language always comes.
After those two, Breton displaced the Basque and English from our lips. Their fame exploded! No one clung to words outworn, outmoded songs, and all you heard was, “By God’s grace!” from every father and his son. The mad spoke Breton, and the dumb. A new language always comes.
Forgotten now, no longer good, Breton’s found peace with last year’s coins. We only speak Burgundian! “No god for me” — all in one voice. You might well ask, which, of those four, is worth the ransom, at this price. I’ll shut up now: my song is sung. A new language always comes.
Prince, which people will have won the “title,” “name,” or “lawful right” to grind the grain today? Tonight? A new language always comes.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
I write for the day when I will no longer be here To share how pleasure wept for joy – was air! For carried into the future’s throng, my book Should show how I loved life with a natural look.
Attentive to all toil, in dwellings as in pastures, Every day I’ve traced a season’s changing contours: Water, earth and a flaming torch uplifts No corner quite so much as through my spirit’s gifts.
I’ve shown what I have seen, and what I’ve sensed, With a heart for which the truth is no extravagance, And now I have this yearning, as if for an affair, To be, beyond death, loved, more loved than heretofore.
And that a young man, say, deep into what I’ve written, Feels through me his heart: moved, astonished, smitten; One who just erases all his commonplace amours, Takes me to his breast, and tells me, I am yours!
We present this work in honor of the 130th anniversary of the poet’s death.
One fine morning, in the country of a very gentle people, a magnificent man and woman were shouting in the public square. “My friends, I want her to be queen!” “I want to be queen!” She was laughing and trembling. He spoke to their friends of revelation, of trials completed. They swooned against each other.
In fact they were regents for a whole morning as crimson hangings were raised against the houses, and for the whole afternoon, as they moved toward groves of palm trees.
We present this work in honor of the author’s 150th birthday.
Your steps, children of my silence, Holily, slowly placed, Towards the bed of my vigilance Proceed dumb and frozen.
Nobody pure, divine shade, That they are soft, your steps selected! Gods!… all the gifts which I guess Come to me on these naked feet! If, of your advanced lips, You prepare to alleviate it, An inhabitant of my thoughts The food of a kiss,
Does not hasten this tender act, To be soft and not to be not? Because I lived to await you, And my heart was only your steps.
The guillotine is the masterpiece of plastic art Its click Creates perpetual motion Everyone knows about Christopher Columbus’ egg Which was a flat egg, a fixed egg, the egg of an inventor Archipenko’s sculpture is the first ovoidal egg Held in intense equilibrium Like an immobile top On its animated point Speed It throws off Multicolored waves Color zones And turns in depth Nude. New. Total.