From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters' cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen;
Three April perfumes in three Hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! Yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his fugure, and no pace perceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd.
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,
Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye:
The weak lay hand on what the strong has done,
Till that be tumbled that was lifted high
And discord follow upon unison,
And all things at one common level lie.
And therefore, friend, if your great race were run
And these things came, So much the more thereby
Have you made greatness for your companion,
Although it be for children that you sigh:
These are the clouds about the fallen sun,
The majesty that shuts his burning eye.

Hic omnia habet Mors!

Fierce
Pestilent
Depraved
Nature!

Their sons they sign
Their sons they sign
All of them

On untrodden paths
The matter is chasing you
God

Balm of oblivion
Torch be in his hands
Reveal a foil to him
Insode is the expedient

Close your eyes and rush
On untrodden paths
Reel into the dusk
There's nothing to lose
To find her

And take her two hands
Unbind the leaves of her palms
Do paint her second dawn
By colours so panting

Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.

Beloved heroes! Your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest ;
Where the mighty of old have their home-
Where Achilles and Diomed rest.

In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A liberation of Tyranny's blood.

Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
Embalmed in their ecoing songs!

It is as if lines have to be drawn in a continually
Flowing stream, figures drawn which hold fast
Between this reality of life and the scientific intellect there appears to be no possibility of comprehension,
For the concept sunders what is to be unified in the flow of life.
The concept represents something which is universally and eternally valid, Independent of the mind which propounds it.
But the flow of life is at all points unique,
Every wave in it arises and passes

In the night I swim like in dead water
Petrified lure is the moon
And the silence drives nails into my throat

Immense wisdom in this mute ocean
Flowing through the ditches of time
A substance insubstantial

In the night I swim like in dead water
But aridity's building a mountain in my heart
Darkness is drifting
Sweping me away with the mire

A brick I would be
In the wall of an old house
Only to see and not to feel
The times desiccated by winter
Only to see and not to feel

Yet my hair in the womb
And my soles on the ruins
The pain of a world
Cuts a path into the current
And I have seen whither you went

Csorognak a percek le
Feketére festik a világot
Úgy mondják, vigyáz ránk a hold
És hisszük mi is

Gyönyörü vagy és gyönyörü vagyok most

Awakening winter
Petal even in its bereavement
Grief even in its root

Cumbersome soil
Appearing into tower
Standing fast

All is far away
The feeble light
Is devouring fog

Hollow vacancy
Within those archways
Alive decay

We edge away
And approach
In the lostness

Until falling asleep
Slowly become
Solace

Privacy
In the mute falming
Of the universe

Desolation