"A Cradle Song" by William Blake

Sweet dreams form a shade,
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams
Sweet sleep with soft down.
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.
Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep sleep happy child,
All creation slept and smil'd.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep.
While o'er thee thy mother weep
Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee.
Thy maker lay and wept for me
Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee,
Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are His own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.

"With her pearly,undulading dresses" by Charles Baudelaire

With her pearly, undulating dresses,
Even when she's walking, she seems to be dancing
Like those long snakes which the holy fakirs
Set swaying in cadence on the end of their staffs.

Like the dull sand and the blue of deserts,
Both of them unfeeling toward human suffering,
Like the long web of the ocean's billows,
She unfurls herself with unconcern.

Her glossy eyes are made of charming minerals
And in that nature, symbolic and strange,
Where pure angel is united with ancient sphinx,

Where everything is gold, steel, light and diamonds,
There glitters forever, like a useless star,
The frigid majesty of the sterile woman.

"Ballade: A S’amye" by François Villon

F alse beauty that costs me so dear,

R ough indeed, a hypocrite sweetness,

A mor, like iron on the teeth and harder,

N amed only to achieve my sure distress,

C harm that’s murderous, poor heart’s death,

O covert pride that sends men to ruin,

I mplacable eyes, won’t true redress

S uccour a poor man, without crushing?

M uch better elsewhere to search for

A id: it would have been more to my honour:

R etreat I must, and fly with dishonour,

T hough none else then would have cast a lure.

H elp me, help me, you greater and lesser!

E nd then? With not even one blow landing?

Or will Pity, in line with all I ask here,

Succour a poor man, without crushing?

That time will come that will surely wither

Your bright flower, it will wilt and yellow,

Then if I can grin, I’ll call on laughter,

But, yet, that would be foolish though:

You’ll be pale and ugly: and I’ll be old,

Drink deep then, while the stream’s still flowing:

And don’t bring trouble on all men so,

Succour a poor man, without crushing.

Amorous Prince, the greatest lover,

I want no evil that’s of your doing,

But, by God, all noble hearts must offer

To succour a poor man, without crushing.

"ΤΟ ΠΑΡΑΠΟΝΟ" ΟΔΥΣΣΕΑΣ ΕΛΥΤΗΣ

Εδώ στου δρόμου τα μισά
έφτασε η ώρα να το πω
Άλλα είν' εκείνα που αγαπώ
γι' αλλού γι' αλλού ξεκίνησα

Στ' αληθινά στα ψεύτικα
το λέω και τ' ομολογώ
Σαν να 'μουν άλλος κι όχι εγώ
μες στη ζωή πορεύτηκα

Όσο κι αν κανείς προσέχει
όσο κι αν τα κυνηγά
Πάντα πάντα θα 'ναι αργά
δεύτερη ζωή δεν έχει.

" Desespoir" Oscar Wilde

The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its head
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again
And this grey land grow green with summer rain
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.

But what of life whose bitter hungry sea
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night
Covers the days which never more return?
Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn
We lose too soon, and only find delight
In withered husks of some dead memory.

"Spleen" Charles Baudelaire

Είμαι σαν κάποιο βασιλιά σε μια σκοτεινή χώρα,
πλούσιον, αλλά χωρίς ισχύ, νέον, αλλά από τώρα
γέρο, που τους παιδαγωγούς φεύγει, περιφρονεί,
και την ανία του να διώξει ματαιοπονεί
μ' όσες μπαλάντες απαγγέλει ο γελωτοποιός του.
Τίποτε δε φαιδρύνει πια το μέτωπο του αρρώστου,
ούτε οι κυρίες ημίγυμνες, που είν' έτοιμες να πουν,
αν το θελήσει, πως πολύ πολύ τον αγαπούν,
ούτε η αγέλη των σκυλιών, οι ιέρακες, το κυνήγι,
ούτε ο λαός. Προστρέχοντας, η πόρτα όταν ανοίγει.
Γίνεται μνήμα το βαρύ κρεβάτι του, κι αυτός,
χωρίς ένα χαμόγελο, σέρνεται σκελετός.
Χρυσάφι κι αν του φτιάχνουν οι σοφοί, δε θα μπορέσουν
το σαπισμένο τού είναι του στοιχείο ν' αφαιρέσουν,
και με τα αιμάτινα λουτρά, τέχνη ρωμαϊκή,
ιδιοτροπίατων ισχυρών τότε γεροντική,
να δώσουνε θερμότητα σ' αυτό το πτώμα που έχει
μόνο της Λήθης το νερό στις φλέβες του και τρέχει.

"Αντιθετα απ'το φως" Γιαννης Μαυροματιδης

Και μια μερα θα ξανοιχτει στο μαυρο πελαγο
Το μαυρο μου καραβι
με τα μαυρα,καταμαυρα,ολανοιχτα πανια του
Για το ταξιδι μου αντιθετα απ'το φως...

"Hamlet" by William Shakespeare

Μαρια Πολυδουρη 1 Απριλίου 1902--29 Απριλίου 1930