The Flower

Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went
Thro' my garden bower,
And muttering discontent
Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall
It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o'er the wall
Stole the seed by night.

Sow'd it far and wide
By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried,
"Splendid is the flower!"

Read my little fable:
He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now,
For all have got the seed.

And some are pretty enough,
And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people
Call it but a weed.

یه روز یه باغبونی

یه مرد آسمونی

نهالی کاشت میونه باغچه ی مهربونی

می گفت سفر که رفتم یه روز و روزگاری

این بوته ی یاس من می مونه یادگاری

هر روز غروب عطر یاس تو کوچه ها می پیچید

میونه کوچه باغا بوی خدا می پیچید

اونایی که نداشتند از خوبی ها نشونه

دیدن که خوبی یاس باعث زشتیشونه

عابرهای بی احساس پا گذاشتند روی یاس

ساقه هاشو شکستند آدمهای نا سپاس

یاس جوون بعد اون تکیه زدش به دیوار

خواست بزنه جوونه اما سر اومد بهار

یه باغبونه دیگه

شبونه یاس رو برداشت

پنهون زه نا محرمها

تو باغ دیگه ای کاشت

هزار ساله کوچه ها پر می شه از عطر یاس

اما مکان اون گل مونده هنوز ناشناس  

 شاعر: فرید احمدی

Dawn Dawn Rise Now

سحرِسحر اینک طلوع کن  

Dawn dawn rise now into day                                     سحرِسحر روز را به ارمغان بیاور  
Morning coming quite so new                                             صبح با طراوت در راه است
Full of airy singing lay                                           مملو از نغمه های دلنواز گسترده می شود
Coming up and coming too                                            و با طلوعش از راه خواهد رسید

Young opening feeling high                                        آغازی نوخواسته با احساسی متعالی
Full with new colors made                                                            آکنده از رنگهایی تازه
Set for bringing blue sky                                                               برای خلق اسمانی آبی
Over mountains and glade                                                       بر فراز تپه ها و دشت ها 

The day's fire coming up                                                            گرمی روز فرا می رسد
Nothing can stop it here                                                         کسی یارای توقف آن نیست
Rising its shine over top                                             پرتو خود را از عرش فرو می ریزد
Filling the dim dark near                                          اندک سیاهی باقیمانده را محو می سازد

Dawn dawn rise now into day                                      سحرِسحر روز را به ارمغان بیاور
Bring the young into blue                                         شادی را به مجلس غم و غصه هدیه کن
Come now close as you may                                              اکنون نزدیک و نزدیک تربیا
All is so hopeful with you                                                            با تو همه امید و رجاست

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:   
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs.  The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,  
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.  
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them. 
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side.  It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across  
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors?  Isn't it 30
Where there are cows?  But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, 
That wants it down."  I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself.  I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. 
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat    
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

The School in August

The cloakroom pegs are empty now,
And locked the classroom door,
The hollow desks are lined with dust,
And slow across the floor
A sunbeam creeps between the chairs
Till the sun shines no more.

Who did their hair before this glass?
Who scratched 'Elaine loves Jill'
One drowsy summer sewing-class
With scissors on the sill?
Who practised this piano
Whose notes are now so still?

Ah, notices are taken down,
And scorebooks stowed away,
And seniors grow tomorrow
From the juniors today,
And even swimming groups can fade,
Games mistresses turn grey.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

November Rain

November rain washed away my guilt
November rain washed away my pain
November rain - so tired I felt
November rain was not just any rain

Long I longed with deep torment
For so long my body waited
November rain, , , , Oh, sweet friend
November rain- slowly I faded.

November rain- I cried within
Steady and slowly, it kept on pouring
November rain, watered my skin
And deep inside, I heard my roaring.

November rain, it refused to quit
November rain kept on pouring
And alone outside, in the streets I wept-
dripping... dripping and falling.

I sing a sad song for the cold, lonely
Moments no one will admit to aloud.

I sing a sad song for all of the broken
Promises,
Wrought by circumstances beyond
Anyone's control.

I sing a sad song for the faces pressing
Against the window panes in longing.

I sing a sad song for wild anticipation
Of days that never come.

I sing a sad song for the telephone
That never rings enough.

I sing a sad song for dreams woven of
Hopeless illusions.

I sing a sad song for all of those who
Waste time, singing sad songs!

Eldorado

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old -
This knight so bold -
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow -
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be -
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied -
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

        THE SECOND COMING

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?