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For this pleasure, the vale of Esthwaite, abounding in coppice-wood, furnished a very wide range, These verses arose out of the remembrance of feelings I had often had when a boy, and particularly in the extensive woods that still stretch from the side of Esthwaite Lake towards Graythwaite, the seat of the ancient family of Sandys.

O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene! Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And--with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep-- I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air.

Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky-- Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.

William Wordsworth. Anno salutis Hans Sachs - Comment Attention please! Attention please! Don't dare to talk! Don't dare to sneeze! Don't doze or daydream! Stay awake! Your health, your very life's at stake! Ho—ho, you say, they can't mean me. Ha—ha, we answer, wait and see. Did any of you ever meet A child called Goldie Pinklesweet? Who on her seventh birthday went To stay with Granny down in Kent. Unbedingt weiterlesen! Roald Dahl - Lasst unsre Scham im Dunkel sich verstecken. Comment Danke, Chaostranslater.

Diese Version 37 kannte ich noch nicht. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Gottfried Benn. She was born in Bucovina, and lived in U. A, Romania, and Germany.

I'm curious about what comes next. One Art The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel.

None of these will bring disaster. She is considered one of the most important and distinguished American poets of the 20th century. Ich, ein solcher Narr, ich liebe wieder ohne Gegenliebe! Sonne, Mond un Sterne lachen, und ich lache mit - und sterbe. Comment Das Gedicht findet sich am Ende eines ansonsten in lateinischer Sprache geschriebenen Briefes einer hochgestellten Dame an ihren Lehrer einen Geistlichen ;- Thema des Briefes war die "amicitia", also rein platonisch versteht sich Comment My teacher wasn't half as nice as yours seems to be 'My teacher wasn't half as nice as yours seems to be.

His name was Mister Unsworth and he taught us history. And when you didn't know a date he'd get you by the ear And start to twist while you sat there quite paralysed with fear. Roald Dahl — Translation Lied. Translation Night Thoughts Goethe: Nachtgedanken. Translation Eine rote, rote Rose R. Burns: A Red, Red Rose. Translation Moonlit Night Eichendorff: Mondnacht. Beckett: que ferais-je sans ce monde. Text um Der Mann mit der blauen Gitarre W. Stevens: The Man with the Blue Guitar. Translation Landschaft mit dem Sturz des Ikarus W.

Translation Gib mir einen Arzt W. Auden: Give Me A Doctor. Translation mein geist ist E. Cummings: my mind is. Translation spare time Enzensberger: freizeit. Translation Delos Lawrence Durrell: Delos. Auden: The Unknown Citizen. Longfellow: Children. Translation Der Giftbaum W. Blake: A Poison Tree. Hopkins: Pied Beauty. Translation Sonett Shakespeare. Sechstes Kapitel. Aus: Kritik des Herzens. Williams: Perfection. Translation Ralph W. Extraction Sonett Shakespeare. Wordsworth: Daffodils. Translation Karl Kraus Sonett 18 Shakespeare.

Magee Jr. Poe: The Raven. Translation Charles M. El grito. Monolog Aus: Polenlieder. Act 5 Scene 5. Translation Mevlana Jalaluddin Rumi Who looks out with my eyes? From: The Tragedy of King Lear. Cummings: i carry your heart with me. Comment Canto His many avowals of love, moreover, are constantly refuted by his harsh attacks on historical figures or groups in lines that convey a rage and contempt more deeply felt than professed love. In the very Canto 91 in which love, identified with light and creation, is the mover and object of the poet, democracies, Jews, and others of whom Pound disapproves are equated with filth.

Lillian Feder. Pound and Ovid. In: George Bornstein Ed. Ezra Pound among the poets. University of Chicago Press; Comment That's really nice. Welcome here, Mrs. Maybe you will like this one too. You and I I explain quietly. You hear me shouting. You try a new tack.

I feel old wounds reopen. You see both sides. I see your blinkers. I am placatory. You sense a new selfishness. I am a dove. You recognize the hawk. You offer an olive branch. I feel the thorns. You bleed. I see crocodile tears. I withdraw. You reel from the impact. He presents the BBC Radio 4 programme Poetry Please and records voice-overs for commercials, as well as performing his own poetry regularly.

I'm sorry I must correct a typo in the second verse of: Canto Seit ihrem I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described,--"He looks up--the clouds are split," etc. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split Asunder,--and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!

At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

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Comment I Like it! Here another one of my favourites: Twelve songs: IX Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week, my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moob and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. Comment Eins nur ist, was der Mensch zu allen Zeiten gesucht hat Mai Novalis. Viele Leser kennen sie nicht. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Sie entspricht der Persephone in der griechischen Mythologie. Comment Growing Old What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone. Is it to feel our strength - Not our bloom only, but our strength -decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more weakly strung? Yes, this, and more! It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young.

It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain. It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel: Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion -none. It is -last stage of all - When we are frozen up within, and quite The phantom of ourselves, To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost Which blamed the living man.

Matthew Arnold. Bei Hitze ein Bier sehn, das man nicht bezahlen kann. Gottfried Benn — Comment Mrs. Fegt weg den Wald und des Meeres Flut, Nie wird es sein, so wie es war. Nie wieder gut. While attempting to cross over Helvellyn to Grasmere he slipped from a steep part of the rock where the ice was not thawed, and perished. His body was discovered as is told in this poem. Walter Scott heard of the accident, and both he and I, without either of us knowing that the other had taken up the subject, each wrote a poem in admiration of the dog's fidelity.

His contains a most beautiful stanza "How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber, When the wind waved his garment how oft didst thou start. The Dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the creature doing here? It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast. Not free from boding thoughts, a while The Shepherd stood; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled Discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks The Man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the Shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the Traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell!

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A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This Dog, had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated Traveller died, The Dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate!

Comment Ich kann mich dunkel an den Film erinnern, aber nicht an die Grabrede Hat mich allerdings an ein anders Gedicht denken lassen, dass mal in einem Film vorkam. Der Film war doof, aber das Gedicht war klasse. She being Brand -new; and you know consequently a little stiff i was careful of her and having thoroughly oiled the universal joint tested my gas felt of her radiator made sure her springs were O.

Still- ;stand E. Christian Morgenstern — Comment Da kann ich nur sagen zwei Dumme ein Gedanke Kennst du das hier schon? Vorm Fliegelflagel sieh dich vor, dem mampfen Schnatterrind! In sich gekeimt, so stand er hier: Da kam verschnoff der Zipferlak Mit Flammenlefze angewacktt Und gurgt in seiner Gier. Mit eins! Die biffe Klinge ritscheropf! Trennt er vom Hals den toten Kopf, Und wiehernd sprengt er heim.

Komm an mein Herz, aromer Sohn! O blumer Tag! O schlusse Fron! Lewis Carroll. Das Original hab ich nicht parat Comment The Morning-Watch O joys! All the long hours Of night, and rest, Through the still shrouds Of sleep, and clouds, This dew fell on my breast; Oh, how it bloods And spirits all my earth! In what rings And hymning circulations the quick world Awakes and sings; The rising winds And falling springs, Birds, beasts, all things Adore him in their kinds.

O let me climb When I lie down! The pious soul by night Is like a clouded star whose beams, though said To shed their light Under some cloud, Yet are above, And shine and move Beyond that misty shroud. Comment A Summer Morning Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet, Nor with such dewdrops jewelled o'er.

I stand with thee outside the door, The air not yet is close with heat, And far across the yellowing wheat The waves are breaking on the shore. A lovely day! Yet many such, Each like to each, this month have passed, And none did so supremely shine. One thing they lacked: the perfect touch Of thee — and thou art come at last, And half this loveliness is thine. In concluding my notices of this class of poems it may be as well to observe that among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets" are a few alluding to morning impressions which might be read with mutual benefit in connection with these "Evening Voluntaries.

Time was when field and watery cove With modulated echoes rang, While choirs of fervent Angels sang Their vespers in the grove; Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both. II No sound is uttered,--but a deep And solemn harmony pervades The hollow vale from steep to steep, And penetrates the glades. Far-distant images draw nigh, Called forth by wondrous potency Of beamy radiance, that imbues, Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues! In vision exquisitely clear, Herds range along the mountain side; And glistening antlers are descried; And gilded flocks appear.

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe That this magnificence is wholly thine! III And, if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail, Yon hazy ridges to their eyes Present a glorious scale, Climbing suffused with sunny air, To stop--no record hath told where! And tempting Fancy to ascend, And with immortal Spirits blend!

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, And see to what fair countries ye are bound! And if some traveller, weary of his road, Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, Ye Genii! IV Such hues from their celestial Urn Were wont to stream before mine eye, Where'er it wandered in the morn Of blissful infancy. This glimpse of glory, why renewed? Nay, rather speak with gratitude; For, if a vestige of those gleams Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.

Dread Power! Alstone, now in America. It is pleasant to make this public acknowledgment to a man of genius, whom I have the honour to rank among my friends. Allusions to the Ode, entitled "Intimations of Immortality," pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem. Ich bin wirklich gespannt auf mehr von William Wordsworth zum Morgen- und Abendthema. August in Montagnola, Schweiz. EARTH has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her sway Like influence never may my soul reject If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked With glorious forms in numberless array, To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose Gleams from a world in which the saints repose.

Thanks; thou hast snapped a fireside Prisoner's chain, Exulting Warbler! Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! Comment Proletarian Poet A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing the sidewalk Her shoe in her hand. It seems that death has found the portals it will enter by: my lungs, pathetic oblong ghosts, one paler than the other on the doctor's viewing screen. Looking up "pneumonia," I learn it can, like an erratic dog, turn mean and snap life short for someone under two or "very old over November Ein Weckruf?

Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt? Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand? How shall I lift it gently up over you on to other things? I would so very much like to tuck it away among long lost objects in the dark. Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie. If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition, That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate.

And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust. And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth; Tell honor how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth; Tell favor how it falters. And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness. And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention.

And as they do reply, So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness; Tell justice of delay. And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing— Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing— Stab at thee he that will, No stab the soul can kill.

Comment The Act There were the roses, in the rain. Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said, and cut them and gave them to me in my hand. Die Tathandlung Da standen die Rosen im Regen. Ich bitt dich, schneid sie nicht ab. Comment The Dream Of Wearing Shorts Forever To go home and wear shorts forever in the enormous paddocks, in that warm climate, adding a sweater when winter soaks the grass, to camp out along the river bends for good, wearing shorts, with a pocketknife, a fishing line and matches, or there where the hills are all down, below the plain, to sit around in shorts at evening on the plank verandah - If the cardinal points of costume are Robes, Tat, Rig and Scunge, where are shorts in this compass?

Nur die seligen Engel wachen, Leise durch den Himmel schwebend, Alle, die hier unten schieden, An die reinen Herzen hebend. Theodor Storm — Two years at least passed between the writing of the four first stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; but there may be no harm in adverting here to particular feelings or 'experiences' of my own mind on which the structure of the poem partly rests.

Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. I have said elsewhere-- "A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death! I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be translated, in something of the same way, to heaven.

With a feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. Many times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality.

At that time I was afraid of such processes. In later periods of life I have deplored, as we have all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character, and have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines-- "Obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings;" etc. To that dream-like vividness and splendour which invest objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here: but having in the poem regarded it as presumptive evidence of a prior state of existence, I think it right to protest against a conclusion, which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief.

It is far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith, as more than an element in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in mind that, though the idea is not advanced in revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of Man presents an analogy in its favour.

Accordingly, a pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds of many nations; and, among all persons acquainted with classic literature, is known as an ingredient in Platonic philosophy. Archimedes said that he could move the world if he had a point whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the same aspirations as regards the world of his own mind?

Having to wield some of its elements when I was impelled to write this poem on the "Immortality of the Soul," I took hold of the notion of pre- existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity for authorising me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could as a poet. It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. II The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose, The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare, Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

III Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday;-- Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!

IV Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. Oh evil day! Where is it now, the glory and the dream? V Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. VI Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

VIII Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-- Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! IX O joy! Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

X Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. Theodor Storm. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

Walter A. Dietrich H. Comment Hier ist die englische Variante, December. But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel and to possess, And roam alone, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! Lord Byron. Comment Und da wir gerade beim Thema 'Solitude, sind It was founded on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a little girl who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow-storm.

Her footsteps were traced by her parents to the middle of the lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or forward, could be traced. The body however was found in the canal. The way in which the incident was treated and the spiritualising of the character might furnish hints for contrasting the imaginative influences which I have endeavoured to throw over common life with Crabbe's matter of fact style of treating subjects of the same kind.

This is not spoken to his disparagement, far from it, but to direct the attention of thoughtful readers, into whose hands these notes may fall, to a comparison that may both enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, and tend to produce in them a catholic judgment. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, --The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept--and, turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet;" --When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. Comment Das Original: Solitude To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

Comment When we two are parted When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sank chill on my brow It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.

They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me Why wert thou so dear? In secret we met In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. In Schweigen und Leid. JULY 13, No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my Sister.

Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes. FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses.

Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!

The poetry corner - Vol. 3

With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restorationfeelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love.

Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightenedthat serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.

If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved.

For nature then The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by To me was all in all. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels 0 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.

Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes.

Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! Nor, perchance-- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence--wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love--oh!

Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! Twinkling with delight in the house twinkling with the moonlight, Bless my baby bless my baby bright,. Comment The Yellow Gas The yellow gas is fired from street to street past rows of heartless homes and hearths unlit, dead churches, and the unending pavement beat by crowds - say rather, haggard shades that flit Round nightly haunts of their delusive dream, where'er our paradisal instinct starves: - till on the utmost post, its sinuous gleam crawls in the oily water of the wharves; Where Homer's sea loses his keen breath, hemm'd what place rebellious piles were driven down - the priestlike waters to this task condemn'd to wash the roots of the inhuman town!

Ay, we had saved our days and kept them whole, to whom no part in our old joy remains, had felt those bright winds sweeping thro' our soul and all the keen sea tumbling in our veins, Had thrill'd to harps of sunrise, when the height whitens, and dawn dissolves in virgin tears, or caught, across the hush'd ambrosial night, the choral music of the swinging spheres, Or drunk the silence if nought else - But no! I only pray, red flame or deluge, may that end be soon!

Christopher Brennan — Seele des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wasser! Schicksal des Menschen, wie gleichst du dem Wind! Johann Wolfgang v. Comment Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose Gertrude Stein. In garb, then, resembling Some gay gondolier, I'll whisper thee, trembling, "Our bark, love, is near: "Now, now, while there hover "Those clouds o'er the moon, "'Twill waft thee safe over "Yon silent Lagoon.

O, komm! Comment Weil es gerade so gut passt: Herbsttag Herr: es ist Zeit. Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los. Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr. Rainer Maria Rilke. Comment Das Reden nimmt kein End' 1. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Uns soll geholfen sein. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — Bald zieht der Kaiser ein. Zu Frankfurt an dem Main — So schlag' der Teufel d'rein!

Die Welt sie steht in Flammen, Sie sitzen noch beisammen. Wie lange soll es dauern Das Parla — Parla — Parlament? O Volk mach' ihm ein End'!

  1. 54. Jahrgang!
  2. How to Hire a Ghost Writer?
  3. Conan's Casebook.
  4. INVIDIA: Looking With Malice!
  5. Translated Martin Travers.
  6. Your summer's reign was grand. Beshadow now the dials of your sun and let your winds run rough across the land. The latest fruits command to fill and shine: For them, let two more warmer days arrive to push them to perfection and to drive the final sweetness in the heavy wine. The man without a house will build no more, the man without a mate will sole remain, will wake, will read, write letters long with pain and walk the boulevards, restless to the core, where falling leaves are drifting with the rain.

    Translation by Walter A. Autumn Day Lord: it is time. The summer was immense. Let thine shadows upon the sundials fall, and unleash the winds upon the open fields. Command the last fruits into fullness; give them just two more ripe, southern days, urge them into completion and press the last bit of sweetness into the heavy wine. He who has no house now, will no longer build.

    He who is alone now, will remain alone, will awake in the night, read, write long letters, and will wander restlessly along the avenues, back and forth, as the leaves begin to blow. Juni — Nr. Comment moustique: 89 -- gesucht und gefunden Seele des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wasser!

    Schicksal des Menschen, Wie gleichst du dem Wind! Karl Friedrich von Gerok deutscher Theologe und Lyriker. So ging es viel Jahre, bis lobesam Der von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck zu sterben kam. Legt mir eine Birne mit ins Grab. Und die Kinder klagten, das Herze schwer: "He is dod nu. Wer giwt uns nu 'ne Beer? Theodor Fontane — Entstanden Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Ode to Psyche O Goddess! I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?

    His Psyche true! O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. O brightest! So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

    Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!

    O Strahlendste! Treu, Psyche, dich! Wilhelm Busch. Comment Survivor Everyday, I think about dying. About disease, starvation, violence, terrorism, war, the end of the world. It helps keep my mind off things. Raymond A. Comment Comete. Just the detail that swam in its flow-lines, glossing about— as she paced on, comet-like, face to the sun.

    Studie: medicalwriter webde Claus. A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his Soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

    Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, To render with thy precepts less The sum of human wretchedness, And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself--and equal to all woes, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.

    Wer rettete vom Tode mich, Von Sklaverei? Ich dich ehren? Hast du die Schmerzen gelindert Je des Beladenen? Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Entstanden zwischen und Der Wind hat sich in einem Baum gefangen. An einem Fenster klebt ein fetter Mann. Ein grauer Clown zieht sich die Stiefel an. Ein Kinderwagen schreit und Hunde fluchen. Alfred Lichtenstein — Comment Le Jardin The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

    The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour. Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk. Oscar Wilde. Comment Thank you, meera. That's brilliant! Au Jardin O you away high there, you that lean From amber lattices upon the cobalt night, I am below amid the pine trees, Amid the little pine trees, hear me!

    Well, there's no use your loving me That way, Lady; For I've nothing but songs to give you. Doch ach! Und ach! Heinrich Heine — Na, un denn --? Denn jehn die Beeden brav ins Bett. Na ja Denn kricht det junge Paar 'n Kind. Ebooks and Manuals

    Denn kocht sie Milch. Denn macht er Krach. Denn is det Kind nich uffn Damm. Denn bleihm die Beeden doch zesamm. Er will noch wat mit blonde Haare: vorn dof und hinten minorenn Denn sind se alt. Der Sohn haut ab. Der Olle macht nu ooch bald schlapp. Wie der noch scharf uff Muttern war, det is schon beinah nich mehr wahr! Kurt Tucholsky. Comment Ode To A Chestnut On The Ground From bristly foliage you fell complete, polished wood, gleaming mahogany, as perfect as a violin newly born of the treetops, that falling offers its sealed-in gifts, the hidden sweetness that grew in secret amid birds and leaves, a model of form, kin to wood and flour, an oval instrument that holds within it intact delight, an edible rose.

    In the heights you abandoned the sea-urchin burr that parted its spines in the light of the chestnut tree; through that slit you glimpsed the world, birds bursting with syllables, starry dew below, the heads of boys and girls, grasses stirring restlessly, smoke rising, rising. You made your decision, chestnut, and leaped to earth, burnished and ready, firm and smooth as the small breasts of the islands of America.

    You fell, you struck the ground, but nothing happened, the grass still stirred, the old chestnut sighed with the mouths of a forest of trees, a red leaf of autumn fell, resolutely, the hours marched on across the earth. Because you are only a seed, chestnut tree, autumn, earth, water, heights, silence prepared the germ, the floury density, the maternal eyelids that buried will again open toward the heights the simple majesty of foliage, the dark damp plan of new roots, the ancient but new dimensions of another chestnut tree in the earth.

    I asked: "But how do I come here, Who never wished to come; Can the light and air be made more clear, The floor more quietsome, And the doors set wide? They numb Fast-locked, and fill with fear. Aue ist sehr gut gelungen. September Morning The world's adream in fog's embrace, Still slumber woods and meadows: But soon, through the dissolving lace, You'll see the blue of endless space, The milder grace of autumn's face Transcending golden shadows.

    Englisch: Walter A. Comment The Tuft of Flowers I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the levelled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been,—alone, As all must be,' I said within my heart, Whether they work together or apart.

    And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. Comment A Minor Bird I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song.

    Comment Die freie Marktwirtschaft Ihr sollt die verfluchten Tarife abbauen. Ihr sollt auf euern Direktor vertrauen. Kein Betriebsrat quatsche uns mehr herein, wir wollen freie Wirtschaftler sein! Fort, die Gruppen - sei unser Panier! Na, ihr nicht. Aber wir. Ihr sollt nicht mehr zusammenstehn - wollt ihr wohl auseinandergehn! Keine Kartelle in unserm Revier! Ihr nicht. Wir stehen neben den Hochofenflammen in Interessengemeinschaften fest zusammen.

    Gut organisiert sitzen wir hier Kurt Tucholsky — Comment Herbstaugen Presse dich eng an den Boden. Die Erde riecht noch nach Sommer,. So kommt es denn zuletzt heraus, Dass ich ein ganz famoses Haus. Der Dorfschulmeister stieg hinauf auf seines Blechschilds Messingknauf und sprach zum Wolf, der seine Pfoten geduldig kreuzte vor dem Toten: "Der Werwolf", - sprach der gute Mann, "des Weswolfs"- Genitiv sodann, "dem Wemwolf" - Dativ, wie man's nennt, "den Wenwolf" - damit hat's ein End.

    Doch da er kein Gelehrter eben, so schied er dankend und ergeben. Comment Herbstbild Dies ist ein Herbsttag, wie ich keinen sah!

    Christian Friedrich Hebbel — Comment The Teasers Not but they die, the teasers and the dreams, Not but they die, and tell the careful flood To give them what they clamour for and why. You could not fancy where they rip to blood You could not fancy nor that mud I have heard speak that will not cake or dry. Our claims to act appear so small to these Our claims to act colder lunacies That cheat the love, the moment, the small fact.

    Comment Missing Dates Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. It is not your system or clear sight that mills Down small to the consequence a life requires; Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.

    They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires. Kleine Blumen Was ist die Welt? Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Diese Wahrnehmung ist nicht korrekt. Trotz dessen traut Marcia Clark O. Simpson meiner Ansicht nach zu viel zu. Mir erschien die Tat eher impulsiv. Clark hingegen war bereit, alle Indizien zu Simpsons Nachteil zu interpretieren.

    Doch betrachten wir ihre Situation. Und bei all diesen Anforderungen will sie nur einen einzigen Fehler gemacht haben? Dadurch wirkt sie defensiv, trotzig, stur, uneinsichtig, unreflektiert und arrogant. Sie hat einen latent aggressiven Zug an sich, der nicht sehr sympathisch ist. Ich denke, ihre eigenen Entscheidungen trugen ebenfalls zum Freispruch bei.

    Marcia Clarks Erinnerungen boten mir noch einmal eine ganz neue Perspektive auf diesen Fall. Nach diesen drei Auslegungen der Fakten glaube ich, die Wahrheit liegt irgendwo dazwischen. Juni geschah. Diese sogenannte Trial Jury besteht aus 12 Geschworenen, die im Idealfall einen Querschnitt der Gesellschaft wiederspiegeln. Sie werden oft in einem Hotel auf Staatskosten untergebracht und ihr Zugang zu Medien wie Zeitung, Fernsehen und Internet wird reglementiert. In einem Strafprozess muss das Urteil der Jury einstimmig sein.

    Oktober des zweifachen Mordes freigesprochen werden konnte. Wortmagie's rating it was ok. Wells ist das Problem allzu bewusst.

    Table of contents

    Botschaft angekommen. Sie wurde einberufen, weil sie gebraucht wird. Wird es Maskelle gelingen, sich ihrer Vergangenheit zu stellen und derselben Magie zu vertrauen, die sie einst betrog? Ich kam deshalb nicht mehr wirklich mit und litt unter ernsten Visualisierungsschwierigkeiten. Maskelle und die Stadt Dulvapore sind zweifelfrei faszinierend. Deshalb bleibe ich optimistisch und gebe ihr eine weitere Chance. Honka war in den er Jahren in Hamburg aktiv und ermordete mindestens vier Frauen, deren Leichen durch Zufall entdeckt wurden.

    Seine Opfer waren gescheiterte Existenzen ohne soziales Netz, weshalb niemand sie als vermisst meldete. Er wurde im Juli verhaftet und im Dezember zu einer Freiheitsstrafe von 15 Jahren verurteilt. Er starb Der daraus entstandene Roman ist eine von Kritikern gelobte Milieustudie, die mir von einem Kollegen empfohlen und ausgeborgt wurde. Die Verlorenen. Die Verzweifelten.

    Dort kreuzen sich die Wege aller sozialen Klassen. Und es ist kein Privileg der Unterschicht. Er ist Alkoholiker und ein Sozialversager, wie er im Buche steht. Dort ist mal jemand auf einem Barhocker gestorben und niemand hat es gemerkt. Ich hatte Mitleid mit ihm! Schriftstellerisch ist das ein beeindruckender Geniestreich. Ich erforschte meine Emotionen und fand eine erschreckende Bereitschaft, mich auf Honka einzulassen.

    Wie weit darf Sympathie gehen? Am Rande der Gesellschaft ist eben immer Platz. Obwohl sich beim Lesen eine gewisse Faszination des Grauens einstellte, empfand ich das Buch insgesamt als zu trostlos. Am Juli gab es 2. Ich wollte herausfinden, was Frauen bewegt, eine Beziehung mit einem Todeszelleninsassen einzugehen. Sie heiratet ihren Verlobten Matt Ayers in einem winzigen schmucklosen Raum. Ein Ausbruch ist ein riskantes Unternehmen. Leider verlor sie mich auf dem Weg dorthin. Die Protagonistin Mackenzie war nicht die Person, die ich zu treffen gehofft hatte.

    Vor der Wendung fand ich sie naiv und unreflektiert. Ich mochte sie nicht. Ich verstand nicht, warum sie an Matts Schuld zweifelte. Weil er ihr sagte, er sei unschuldig? Das Problem war, dass ich diesen Handlungsabschnitt insgesamt einfach lahm fand. Doch der Schaden war bereits angerichtet. Ich war erstaunt, wie schnell ich durch war. Quizfrage: wann fanden die olympischen Sommerspiele in Barcelona statt? Ich recherchierte, dass die spanische Stadt Austragungsort war. Da sieht man mal, wie viel Zeit von der ersten Idee bis zum fertigen Buch vergehen kann.

    Magie ist den oberen Schichten vorbehalten. Mithilfe ihres Freundes Cery und den Dieben, einer kriminellen Untergrundorganisation, versteckt sie sich vor der Gilde, die fieberhaft nach ihr sucht. Schon bald kann Sonea nicht mehr garantieren, niemanden zu verletzen. Ich hatte niemals Zweifel daran, dass die Magier Sonea am Ende kriegen. Die Stadt ist tief gespalten; die Gesellschaft ist streng nach Klassen unterteilt, nicht nur baulich, sondern auch ideologisch.

    Niemand kann sich die Dienste eines Heilers oder einer Heilerin leisten. Magie ist nicht nur in Kyralia bekannt, sondern auch in den angrenzenden Nationen. Genie und Wahnsinn liegen sehr dicht beisammen. Ich bin gespannt auf Soneas magische Ausbildung, die ich hoffentlich intensiv erleben darf und brenne darauf, zu erfahren, wie sie das sensible Gleichgewicht ihrer Welt zwischen Krone, Dieben und Gilde beeinflussen wird. Kein Wunder, dass sie irgendwann genug von kalten Temperaturen hatte.

    Sie zog nach Hawaii, arbeitete auf einer Farm und wohnte in einem Zelt am Strand. Es erschien im Januar Allein wird es Vasja nicht gelingen. Vasja muss ihn erwecken. Das Schicksal ihres Volkes ruht auf ihren Schultern. Ich lernte Vasilisa Petrovna am Tag ihrer Geburt kennen. Vasja ist wie sie ist aufgrund ihrer Erfahrungen, nicht aufgrund ihrer Vorfahren.

    Erwachsen zu sein bedeutet, kindliche Fantasien hinter sich zu lassen und die Welt so zu sehen, wie sie ist, sich Verpflichtungen zu stellen und das Richtige zu tun. Zauber hat da keinen Platz. Ich denke, das ist es, was Katherine Arden illustrieren wollte: die Verluste und Gewinne des Heranwachsens. Sie schenkte mir ein fabelhaftes, reifes Buch voller Weisheit. Er trainierte und lernte, seine animalische Seite zu kontrollieren. Wieder sitzt Colin in Elkwood fest. Er ahnt nicht, dass die Verteidigung Elkwoods schon bald in seinen Pranken liegen wird.

    Denn der schwebende Mann war keine Einbildung. Colin hat genug Comics gelesen. Es ist ein lustiger, rasanter und actiongeladener zweiter Band, der sich hinter dem Auftakt nicht verstecken muss. Er haderte zwar nie mit seinem Schicksal, doch jetzt ist er wirklich in Fell und Krallen angekommen. Meiner Ansicht nach ist es gerade die fehlende Perfektion, die Andrew Buckleys Romane authentisch macht. Deshalb werde ich sie weiterverfolgen. Wahrscheinlich wird dieser Band erneut geteilt, da das Originalmanuskript ca.

    Der Frieden in Osten Ard wankt. Sie brauchen Hilfe. Die Sithi weigern sich, den Menschen beizustehen. Es erschreckte mich zutiefst, dass es nach 30 Jahren des Friedens erneut Menschen gibt, die bereit sind, mit den Nornen zu konspirieren. Haben sie denn nicht dazu gelernt? Der zunehmende Druck auf die beiden war greifbar; besonders Simon ist die Verantwortung, die sein Titel mit sich bringt, leid.

    Die Spieler sind in Position. Das Spiel hat begonnen. Ich glaube nicht, dass Das Herz der verlorenen Dinge ausreicht, um die Dimension des nachfolgenden Auftakts zu begreifen. Ein sanfter Einstieg erschien mir erfolgsversprechender. In der Zukunft wurde das Altern bezwungen, abgeschafft, aus der Gesellschaft getilgt.

    Illegale Schwangerschaften und Geburten sind keine Seltenheit. Er ist stolz auf seinen Beruf. Er soll einen bekannten Terroristen und dessen schwangere Freundin ausschalten. Okay, das lief nicht wie erwartet. Ich bin zwiegespalten. Das Design der Dystopie beeindruckte mich nachhaltig. Die Handlung wirkte allzu konstruiert, der Protagonist war eine Zumutung. Hoffentlich begegnet mir nie wieder eine Figur wie Jan Nachtigall. Meiner Meinung nach war ich nicht die einzige, die sich auf die pervertierte Version einer globalisierten Welt fokussierte.

    Ich fragte das Buch beim Bloggerportal an und erhielt ein Rezensionsexemplar. Sartine teilt ihn dem grimmigen, schroffen Kommissar Lardin zu, der sich den Anweisungen des Polizeichefs widerwillig beugt. Er eilt in seine bretonische Heimat, um an den Trauerfeierlichkeiten teilzunehmen. Nicolas soll Lardin finden. Es freut mich daher umso mehr, dass ich dieses Experiment als Erfolg verbuchen kann.

    Schade, dass der Protagonist dieser bunten, lebendigen Kulisse nicht gerecht wurde. Nicolas mutete wie eine erwachsene Variante Oliver Twists an: konturlos, einseitig und modellhaft. Um nicht aufzufallen, verkleidet sie sich verbotenerweise als Mann. Doch schon bald erkennt sie, dass sich hinter der prunkvollen Fassade eine Schlangengrube politischer Intrigen verbirgt.

    Sie wollte wissen, wie es mit ihrer Protagonistin Vasja weitergeht. Sie wollte die Limitationen ihres Universums erforschen, das einzigartig lebendig mit der slawischen Folklore verbunden ist. Vasjas Welt ist gewachsen. Vasjas Konflikt mit den Normen der Gesellschaft tritt explizit in den Vordergrund. Jahrhunderts entspricht.

    Source code of the class german-dico part of termsuite-core version

    Ich konnte mich mit Vasjas hilfloser Zerrissenheit voll identifizieren, fand allerdings auch die Perspektive ihrer Geschwister Sasha und Olga sehr interessant. Leider hatte ich Schwierigkeiten, Moskau im Jahrhundert zu visualisieren. Es flackerte. Vielleicht nutze ich die Wartezeit, um meine Kenntnisse der russischen Geschichte aufzupolieren. Ihre Faszination ist ansteckend. Ich habe Lust, Russland von einer ganz neuen Seite zu entdecken, in seiner magischen, leidenschaftlichen Mythologie zu versinken.

    Sein Stil, seine Stimme verlangten nach einem modernen Setting. Sie lernte, sich zu behaupten. Denn Jax bewahrt ein furchtbares Geheimnis, das sie alle in Gefahr bringt. Diese Variante ist vielleicht etwas uninspiriert, aber vorstellbar und mir gefiel es, dass die Menschheit von einer scheinbar banalen Krankheit in die Knie gezwungen wurde. Sie ist nicht mal zu Tieren nett. Ihre Methoden sind brutal und aggressiv, entsprechen jedoch der aktuellen gesellschaftlichen Situation. Es geht ja nur um die Zukunft der Menschheit.

    Ih Kari Maaren ist ein kreatives Allround-Talent. Ich erhielt ein Rezensionsexemplar via Netgalley. Vor dem leerstehenden Nachbarhaus ist ein Umzugswagen gegen einen Baum gebrettert. Sie stellen sich als Josiah und Cuerva Lachance vor. Sie sind… exzentrisch. Will sie wieder nach Hause, hat sie keine andere Wahl, als Josiah zu vertrauen. Wer sind die beiden wirklich? Was wollen sie von ihr und ihrer Familie?

    Was ihre Kauzigkeit betrifft, lag ich hingegen goldrichtig. Josiah und Cuerva Lachance sind nahezu aggressiv seltsam. Niemand kann leugnen, dass mit diesen beiden etwas nicht stimmt. Dennoch mochte ich die beiden. Es geht um sie und ihre Geschwister. Sie ignoriert sie schlicht. Trotzdem hoffe ich, dass Kari Maaren der Versuchung einer Fortsetzung widersteht, denn meiner Meinung nach besteht der Reiz darin, es eben nicht zu wissen und die eigene Fantasie anzukurbeln, was ich als Intention der Autorin verstehe.

    Atwood und Alderman verbrachten viel Zeit miteinander. Es breitet sich aus, rasend schnell. Die Macht, zu verletzen. Notfalls mit Gewalt. Doch wie viel weibliche Macht kann die Welt ertragen? Ich schon. Oft sogar. Love is in the air. Es handelt sich dabei um einen bodenlos sexistischen Wunschtraum, der sich aus der Sehnsucht nach einer besseren Welt speist. Dieses Buch war eine Offenbarung. Alderman illustriert diese Botschaft durch eine exzellente Mischung aus vier greifbaren Perspektiven.

    Eine scheinbar neue Ordnung entfaltet sich. Zu Beginn der Geschichte begeisterte mich das weltweite Erwachen der Frauen. Der Weltfrieden blieb aus. Ich durchlebte eine graduelle Desillusionierung. Sind Frauen bessere Menschen? Trotz dessen ist Naomi Aldermans Roman hochgradig feministisch. Feminismus bedeutet, ein Gleichgewicht der Geschlechter anzustreben.

    Lest es. Fletcher schreibt nicht hauptberuflich. Das war sicher eine niederschmetternde Erfahrung, doch sie hinderte ihn nicht daran, seinen Traum weiterzuverfolgen. Das Finale fand beim kleinen Imprint Talos eine Heimat. Fletcher kann es schwer sein, sich dauerhaft zu etablieren. Konig Furimmer, Oberhaupt der Geborene Damonen, glaubt das nicht. Sein Aufstieg steht kurz bevor. Doch Gehirn kann sie nicht aufhalten und schon bald versuchen auch andere Geisteskranke, Morgen in ihre Gewalt zu bringen. Erst als ich das Vorwort des Autors Michael R.

    Nach den ersten Kapiteln des Trilogieauftakts wurde mir klar, dass diese prophylaktische Entschuldigung definitiv angebracht ist. Was Fletcher mit der deutschen Sprache anstellt, schmerzte mich bis in die Haarspitzen. Alle Eigennamen sind konsequent deutsch, doch es handelt sich nicht um deutsche Namen. Ich fand das unglaublich irritierend und brauchte sehr lange, um mich damit abzufinden.

    Tod vor Morgengrauen von Deon Meyer (Hörbuch) Krimi (teil 1)

    Die Idee, ein Grimdark-Universum rund um manifestierte Wahnvorstellungen bzw. Ich scheiterte an den Mauern ihrer Manien. Der Autor schubste mich in dieses Irrenhaus hinein, ohne mir zu helfen, mich zu orientieren. Es war einfach zu viel Wahnsinn. Fletcher war. Ich bin neugierig, ich will wissen, wie es weiter geht.

    Hoffentlich ist der Wahnsinn dieses Universums nicht ansteckend. Meine Erfahrungen mit Leserunden waren bisher eher negativ, doch der Klappentext weckte meine Neugier. Ich gab der umfangreichen Leseprobe eine Chance. Die ersten 60 Seiten nahmen mich gefangen. Sebastian, der Sohn des reichen Unternehmers Claes Fagermann. Sebastian, der langsam kalt wurde. In der Luft hing der Geruch nach faulen Eiern und Pulverrauch. In ihrer Hand hielt Maja eine Waffe. Sie war unverletzt. Doch was ist wirklich in dem Klassenzimmer geschehen? Wie kam es zu dem Massaker, das mehrere Menschen das Leben kostete?

    Was ist das wichtigste Element eines guten Thrillers? Wenn ihr mich fragt, ist es der Spannungsbogen. Die Spannung wird die ganze Zeit aufrechterhalten, flaut niemals ab und riss mich mit. Sie erschien distanziert, genervt, nahezu desinteressiert am Verlauf ihrer eigenen Verhandlung. Ich wollte wissen, warum Maja so zornig ist und begriff bald, dass sich unter ihrem Zorn ein Meer der Resignation, Schuld und Verzweiflung verbirgt, das mir beinahe das Herz brach. Ich sehe euch jetzt bereits wissend mit dem Kopf nicken. Haltet ein. So einfach ist es nicht.

    Schuldig oder nicht — Maja ist ein Opfer. Malin Persson Giolito ist ein Name, den man sich unbedingt merken sollte. Von Kindesbeinen an wird Victor Frankenstein von seinem unstillbaren Verlangen nach Erkenntnissen getrieben. Sein Wissensdurst ist grenzenlos. Berauscht erschafft Frankenstein die unheilige Kopie eines Menschen.

    Angewidert von der Frucht seiner Arbeit wendet sich Frankenstein ab. Am meisten erstaunte mich, dass ich Victor Frankenstein seinem Monster vorzog. Ich bin vom Gegenteil ausgegangen. Er bereut, dass er keinen Menschen nach seinem Abbild formen konnte. Er ist sich bis zum Ende keiner Schuld bewusst, spricht sich von jeglicher Verantwortung frei und weigert sich, sein Versagen hinsichtlich seiner bizarren Elternrolle einzugestehen.

    Mary Shelley war ihrer Zeit weit voraus. Wie praktisch. Doch sein rasanter Aufstieg der Karriereleiter fordert Opfer. Bis er eines Tages kurz vor Weihnachten einem Obdachlosen einen Kaffee spendiert. Der Mann stellt sich als Gabe vor. Seine bemerkenswerte Auffassungsgabe imponiert Lou. Er besorgt ihm einen Job in der Poststelle seiner Firma.

    Diese Entscheidung beginnt er schnell zu bereuen. Er missversteht seine Absichten. Aber er wird verstehen. Schon bald. Lou ist ein Workaholic. Es ist naheliegend, dass Weihnachten in seiner Wahrnehmung nur eine geringe Rolle spielt und das Buch daher kaum mit festlicher Stimmung dienen kann. Lous Sinneswandlung vollzieht sich graduell. Er wedelt nicht mit dem mahnenden Zeigefinger, sondern stimuliert Lou zur Selbsterkenntnis.