Autores / Edgar Allan PoeFrases de Edgar Allan Poe 64 frases
Soneto a la ciencia
¡Ciencia! ¡verdadera hija del tiempo tú eres!
que alteras todas las cosas con tus escrutadores ojos. Continuar lendo Soneto a la ciencia
¡Ciencia! ¡verdadera hija del tiempo tú eres!
que alteras todas las cosas con tus escrutadores ojos.
¿Por qué devoras así el corazón del poeta,
buitre, cuyas alas son obtusas realidades?
¿Cómo debería él amarte? o ¿cómo puede juzgarte sabia
aquel a quien no dejas en su vagar
buscar un tesoro en los enjoyados cielos,
aunque se elevara con intrépida ala?
¿No has arrebatado a Diana de su carro?
¿Ni expulsado a las Hamadríades del bosque
para buscar abrigo en alguna feliz estrella?
¿No has arrancado a las Náyades de la inundación,
al Elfo de la verde hierba, y a mí
del sueño de verano bajo el tamarindo?
We loved with a love that was more than love.
Amamos con un amor que fue más que amor. I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat. Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die. No creas nada de lo que oigas y la mitad de lo que veas. There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. We loved with a love that was more than love. The past is a pebble in my shoe. To elevate the soul, poetry is necessary. All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. Invisible things are the only realities. It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream. And all I loved, I loved alone. Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best have gone to their eternal rest. That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses. Deep in earth my love is lying, and I must weep alone. With me, poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion. I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty. Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence. Anterior Página 2 de 3 Próxima