mani mīļākie dzejnieki8

Lai nedomā cilvēks, ka otrs ir slikts, Ikkatram gods vienāds ir debesīs likts; Tik debesu vara virs pasaules spriež, Gan slavenus dara, gan neslavā sviež. Lai apdomā cilvēks, mums mūža laiks īss, Kas dzīvojot nīdies, lai saderas drīz. Cik daudz nav tādu, kas draudzību lauž Un mierā tik dodas, zem smiltīm kad snauž. Viens otru par muļķi, par nekrietnu sauc, Kas gudris, kas labs, to nezin neviens: Pa tumsību domas un spriedumi brauc, Un gals ir ikkatram tik ievadījiens. Kas zin, vai prātīgāks nava tas vīrs, Kas ierasto mēru pie lietām tik liek: Viss dabā ir sajaukts, nekas tur nav tīrs, Ar paviršu lielumu mērīts viss tiek. Pie zemes mūs mūžīgais smagums sien klāt, Un augstāk mēs tiekam tik stutēdamies: Var tūkstošreiz prātu vēl nogurdināt, Es šaubos, vai pāri par dabu tas ies. Tik muļķi var ticēt; kam prāts ir, tas zin, Ka blēņas ir viss, ko bez domām min. Tik muļķis var mīlēt, jo prātīgais redz, Ka katris tik sevi vien mīlēt mēdz.

Edgars Alans Pō (1809 - 1849) bija izcils amerikāņu rakstnieks, dzejnieks un prozaiķis, viens no ievērojamākajiem romantisma literatūras pārstāvjiem ASV. Po uzskata par vienu no kriminālliteratūras, šausmu literatūras un fantastikas literatūras aizsācējiem. Edgars Alans Po bija ceļojošu aktieru otrais dēls. Par viņa tēvu pēc 1810. gada nav nekādu ziņu un viņa māte, atgriežoties Dienvidu apgabalos, gadu vēlāk mira no tuberkulozes. Edgaru, atdalītu no vecākā brāļa un jaunākās māsas, ģimenē pieņēma Virdžīniešu tabakas tirgotājs, Džons Alans (angļu: John Allan), kura uzvārdu Po pieņēma no 1824. gada. Viņš kopā ar Alanu ģimeni devās uz Angliju 1815. gadā un, kamēr tur atradās, apmeklēja arī skolu.

From childhoods hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life- was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.

(baigi garais - ātrāk skatīties video) Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `Tis some visitor, I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more, Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir, said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore! This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore! Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely, said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - Tis the wind and nothing more! Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Nights Plutonian shore! Quoth the raven, `Nevermore. Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore. But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, `Nevermore. Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless, said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore." But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore. This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosoms core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushions velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated oer, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating oer, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch, I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore! Quoth the raven, `Nevermore. `Prophet! said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore! Quoth the raven, `Nevermore. `Prophet! said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore? Quoth the raven, `Nevermore. `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend! I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Nights Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! Quoth the raven, `Nevermore. And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming, And the lamp-light oer him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!