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Adam Asnyk, 1838–1897
Do Mlodych
Szukajcie prawdy jasnego plomienia!
Szukajcie nowych, nie odkrytych drog...
Za kazdym krokiem w tajniki stworzenia
Coraz sie dusza ludzka rozprzestrzenia,
I wiekszym staje sie Bog!
Choc otrząśniecie kwiaty barwnych mitow,
Choc rozproszycie legendowy mrok,
Choc mgle urojen zedrzecie z blekitow,
Ludziom niebianskich nie zbraknie zachwytow,
Lecz dalej siegnie ich wzrok!
Kazda epoka ma swe wlasne cele
I zapomina o wczorajszych snach...
Niescie wiec wiedzy pochodnie na czele
I nowy udzial bierzcie w wiekow dziele,
Przyszlosci podnoscie gmach!
Ale nie depczcie przeszlosci oltarzy,
Choc macie sami doskonalsze wzniesc;
Na nich sie jeszcze swiety ogien żarzy
I milosc ludzka stoi tam na strazy,
I wy winniscie im czesc!
Ze swiatem, ktory w ciemnosc już zachodzi
Wraz z calą tęcza idealnych snow,
Prawdziwa mądrosc niechaj was pogodzi –
I wasze gwiazdy, o zdobywcy młodzi,
W ciemnosciach pogasna znow!
In English....:
TO THE YOUNG
The brightening flame of truth pursue,
Seek to discover ways no human knows.
With every secret now revealed to you,
The soul of man expands within the new.
And God still bigger grows!
Although you may the flowers of myths remove,
Although you may the fabulous dark disperse,
And tear the mist of fancy from above;
There’ll be no shortage of new things to love,
Farther in the universe.
Each epoch has its special goals in store,
And soon forgets the dreams of older days.
So, bear the torch of learning in the fore,
And join the making of new eras’ lore.
The House of the Future raise!
But trample not the altars of the past!
Although you shall much finer domes erect.
The holy flames upon the stones still last,
And human love lives there and guards them fast,
And them you owe respect!
Now with the world that vanishes from view,
Dragging down the perfect rainbow of delight,
Be gently reconciled in wisdom true.
Your stars, oh, youthful conquerors, they, too,
Will fade into the night!
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I should imagine that Irish and Welsh are the languages with most literature written. Don't have much in-depth knowledge of how the Irish system works, but in Welsh there is the Eisteddfod which encourages people to excel in literature from a very young age. Cadeirio'r Bardd (Chairing of the Bard) is the award given to the best piece of poetry written during the year. It's taken very seriously and presented by people in very funny clothes
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[SONETO DO CARALHO POTENTE]
Porripotente heroe, que uma cadeira
Sustens na poncta do caralho teso,
Pondo-lhe em riba mais por contrapeso
A cappa de baetão da alcoviteira:
Teu casso é como o ramo da palmeira,
Que mais se eleva, quando tem mais peso;
Si o não conservas açaimado e preso,
É capaz de foder Lisboa inteira!
Que forças tens no horrido marsapo, [hórrido]
Que assentando a dysforme cachamorra
Deixa connos e cus feitos num trappo!
Quem ao ver-te o tesão há não discorra
Que tu não podes ser sinão Priapo,
Ou que tens um guindaste em vez de porra?
Bocage
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I like Shakespeare, the English Romantics, and this fellow:
THE BLOSSOM.
by John Donne
LITTLE think'st thou, poor flower,
Whom I've watch'd six or seven days,
And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour
Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,
And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,
Little think'st thou,
That it will freeze anon, and that I shall
To-morrow find thee fallen, or not at all.
Little think'st thou, poor heart,
That labourest yet to nestle thee,
And think'st by hovering here to get a part
In a forbidden or forbidding tree,
And hopest her stiffness by long siege to bow,
Little think'st thou
That thou to-morrow, ere the sun doth wake,
Must with the sun and me a journey take.
But thou, which lovest to be
Subtle to plague thyself, wilt say,
Alas ! if you must go, what's that to me?
Here lies my business, and here I will stay
You go to friends, whose love and means present
Various content
To your eyes, ears, and taste, and every part ;
If then your body go, what need your heart?
Well then, stay here ; but know,
When thou hast stay'd and done thy most,
A naked thinking heart, that makes no show,
Is to a woman but a kind of ghost.
How shall she know my heart ; or having none,
Know thee for one?
Practice may make her know some other part ;
But take my word, she doth not know a heart.
Meet me in London, then,
Twenty days hence, and thou shalt see
Me fresher and more fat, by being with men,
Than if I had stay'd still with her and thee.
For God's sake, if you can, be you so too ;
I will give you
There to another friend, whom we shall find
As glad to have my body as my mind.
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I posted that poem as a joke, it's about some guy's huge dick. But that poet is from my city so...
He has other more normal and serious poems.
Our language changed somewhat compared to that. Some words are now written very differently and others don't exist at all. Still i understand 100% of it.
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