Selected Poems (Penguin Classics)
Victor Hugo
Language: English
Pages: 71
ISBN: 0226359808
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
For most of his life, Victor Hugo (1802-1885) was the most famous writer in the world. His legacy includes the nineteenth century's most celebrated works of drama, fiction, memoir, and criticism. But in his day Hugo was know foremost as a poet-indeed the greatest French poet of the age. He wrote with passion about history, erotic experience, familial love, philosophy, nature, social justice, art, and mysticism.
In this new bicentennial edition, acclaimed poet and translator Brooks Haxton offers an exquisite selection of Hugo's finest work: love poems, historical tableaux, elegy, and idyll, including his incomparable "Boaz Asleep," which Marcel Proust praised as the most beautiful poem of the nineteenth century.
French Literature: A Cultural History
Las ilusiones perdidas (Penguin Clásicos)
Aerea in the Forests of Manhattan
Dans la solitude des champs de coton
Stars! Yet now, made weak by love as any mother, I bow down beneath your feet under the twilight, Je me sens éclairé dans ma douleur amère Par un meilleur regard jeté sur l’univers. Seigneur, je reconnais que l’homme est en délire S’il ose murmurer; Je cesse d’accuser, je cesse de maudire, Mais laissez-moi pleurer! Hélas! laissez les pleurs couler de ma paupière, Puisque vous avez fait les hommes pour cela! Laissez-moi me pencher sur cette froide pierre Et dire à mon enfant: Sens-tu.
Hiatus. We no longer need the world’s most famous writer to lead us past our prejudices into an awareness of Shakespeare’s greatest writing. But we may need a critic of Hugo’s stature to help us see Hugo. The passionate vision in the poems themselves will take us past a superficial sense of datedness, but only if we feel the greater receptivity and practice the sharper attention that good writing celebrates. During his exile on Guernsey, as a leader in the opposition to Napoleon III, Hugo often.
Est nécessaire; Nous emporterons nos vœux, Nos bonheurs, notre misère, Et la fleur de tes cheveux. �Viens, le soir brunit les chênes; Le moineau rit; ce moqueur Entend le doux bruit des chaînes Que tu m’as mises au cœur. �Ce ne sera point ma faute Si les forêts et les monts, En nous voyant côte à côte, Ne murmurent pas: �Aimons!» �Viens, sois tendre, je suis ivre. O les verts taillis mouillés! Ton souffle te fera suivre Des papillons réveillés. �L’envieux oiseau nocturne, Triste,.
The moss. It was the time of year when lilies open and let go their sweetness on the hills. Ruth was dreaming. Boaz slept. The grass looked black. And little bells of sheep were trembling on the verge of silence. Goodness came down clear as starlight into the great calm where the lions go to drink. All slept, all, from Ur to Bethlehem. The stars enameled the deep black of the sky. A narrow crescent in the low dark of the west shone, while Ruth wondered, Immobile, ouvrant l’œil à moitié.
Of the sky as if, in calm, for an immeasurable breath. And soon: the archangel. What never dies, what never changes, hovered there. And here below, a thrill: to think, this horn of doom was keeping in a dream from outside time the hush sown somewhere deep among the stars: justice, forged by an inhuman will and beaten, hot, into a shape of brass. There! There it was, in gloom, and fear, and silence. Laid up on unfathomable mists that wobbled out of the world, beyond all semblance in the.