पाब्लो नेरूदा । Pablo Neruda

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Ode to Salt by Pablo Neruda

Ode to Salt by Pablo Neruda

We often hear that poets have their muses, they get inspiration from the nature, from the bounties of the skies, from ravishing waterfalls, from delicate beauties and so on. But have you ever heard that someone got inspired from salt! Yes, salt, our very own, the homely, white, fine-grained beauty that quaintly sits in the uniquely designed porcelain shakers.
And not only inspiration, Neruda decides to render an ode to this taste enhancing grain from the oceans.
Read this wonderful poem titled ‘Ode to Salt’ by Pablo Neruda. Read it again till you start feeling the taste of salt lingering on your lips. Then, you would have actually read what Neruda meant.

This salt in the saltcellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won’t
believe me,
but
it sings,
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those solitudes
when I heard
the voice of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a broken
voice,
a mournful
song.

In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.

And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food. Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste infinitude.

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यूजीन फ़ील्ड । Eugene Field

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Eugene Field

A spring poem from Bion

One asketh:
“Tell me, Myrson, tell me true:
What’s the season pleaseth you?
Is it summer suits you best,
When from harvest toil we rest?
Is it autumn with its glory
Of all surfeited desires?
Is it winter, when with story
And with song we hug our fires?
Or is spring most fair to you–
Come, good Myrson, tell me true!”

Another answereth:
“What the gods in wisdom send
We should question not, my friend;
Yet, since you entreat of me,
I will answer reverently:
Me the summertime displeases,
For its sun is scorching hot;
Autumn brings such dire diseases
That perforce I like it not;
As for biting winter, oh!
How I hate its ice and snow!

“But, thrice welcome, kindly spring,
With the myriad gifts you bring!
Not too hot nor yet too cold,
Graciously your charms unfold–
Oh, your days are like the dreaming
Of those nights which love beseems,
And your nights have all the seeming
Of those days of golden dreams!
Heaven smiles down on earth, and then
Earth smiles up to heaven again!”

हेनरी लॉंगफेलो । Henry Longfellow

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Henry Longfellow

Henry Longfellow


​I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

शॉर्लेट ब्रोंटे । Charlotte Bronte

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Charlotte Bronte

Charlotte Bronte

​LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;

If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall ?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly !

What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away ?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway ?
Yet hope again elastic springs,

Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair !

मैरी एलिज़ाबेथ फ्राई । Mary Elizabeth Frye

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Mary Elizabeth Frye

Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.