De Duitse dichter en schrijver Hans Sachs werd op 5 november 1494 in Nürnberg geboren als zoon van een kleermaker. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 november 2006. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 november 2008.
Der 146 psalm Davit
Lauda anima mea dominum.
Mein sel lobe den heren rein,
ich wil loben den heren,
Die weil ich hab das leben mein
got lob singen zu eren.
Verlaßt euch auf die fürsten nicht,
noch auf die menschenkint mit icht;
sie können euch nit helfen.
Dan sein geist hat kein bleiben, hert!
er muß wider ausfaren
Und wider kumen zu der ert,
sein anschleg sint verlaren.
Wol dem, des hilf got Jacobs ist!
wol dem, des hofnung alle frist
stet auf got, seinen heren!
Der himel, erden und das mer
und alles, was ist drinen,
Gemachet hat on alle schwer,
er ist ob serafinen
Und helt gelauben ewiklich,
der schaffet recht wunderbarlich
dem, der hie unrecht leidet;
Der dem hungrigen gibt das brot,
der her, löst die gefangen;
Der her macht gesehent on spot,
die blinden mit verlangen;
Der her richt auf, welch durch die feint
alhie nidergeschlagen seint;
Hans Sachs (5 november 1494 -19 janauari 1576)
De Amerikaanse schilder en dichter Washington Allston werd geboren op 5 november 1779 in de buurt van Charleston, South Carolina. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 november 2008.
To A Lady Who Spoke Slightingly Of Poets (Fragment)
OH, censure not the Poet's art,
Nor think it chills the feeling heart
To love the gentle Muses.
Can that which in a stone or flower,
As if by transmigrating power,
His gen'rous soul infuses;
Can that for social joys impair
The heart that like the lib'ral air
All Nature's self embraces;
That in the cold Norwegian main,
Or mid the tropic hurricane
Her varied beauty traces;
That in her meanest work can find
A fitness and a grace combin'd
In blest harmonious union,
That even with the cricket holds,
As if by sympathy of souls,
Can that with sordid selfishness
His wide-expanded heart impress,
Whose consciousness is loving;
Who, giving life to all he spies,
His joyous being multiplies,
In youthfulness improving?
Washington Allston (5 november 1779 – 9 juli 1843)
De Russische schrijver Mikhail Artsybashev werd geboren op 5 november 1878 in Dubroslavovka. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 november 2008.
Uit: The Revolutionist
„Gabriel Andersen, the teacher, walked to the edge of the school garden, where he paused, undecided what to do. Off in the distance, two miles away, the woods hung like bluish lace over a field of pure snow. It was a brilliant day. A hundred tints glistened on the white ground and the iron bars of the garden railing. There was a lightness and transparency in the air that only the days of early spring possess. Gabriel Andersen turned his steps toward the fringe of blue lace for a tramp in the woods.
"Another spring in my life," he said, breathing deep and peering up at the heavens through his spectacles. Andersen was rather given to sentimental poetising. He walked with his hands folded behind him, dangling his cane.
He had gone but a few paces when he noticed a group of soldiers and horses on the road beyond the garden rail. Their drab uniforms stood out dully against the white of the snow, but their swords and horses' coats tossed back the light. Their bowed cavalry legs moved awkwardly on the snow. Andersen wondered what they were doing there Suddenly the nature of their business flashed upon him. It was an ugly errand they were upon, an instinct rather that his reason told him. Something unusual and terrible was to happen. And the same instinct told him he must conceal himself from the soldiers. He turned to the left quickly, dropped on his knees, and crawled on the soft, thawing, crackling snow to a low haystack, from behind which, by craning his neck, he could watch what the soldiers were doing.
There were twelve of them, one a stocky young officer in a grey cloak caught in prettily at the waist by a silver belt. His face was so red that even at that distance Andersen caught the odd, whitish gleam of his light protruding moustache and eyebrows against the vivid colour of his skin. The broken tones of his raucous voice reached distinctly to where the teacher, listening intently, lay hidden.”
Mikhail Artsybashev (5 november 1878 – 3 maart 1927)
De Engelse dichter en schrijver James Elroy Flecker werd geboren op 5 november 1884 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 november 2008.
HOW splendid in the morning glows
the lily; with what grace he throws
His supplication to the rose:
do roses nod the head, Yasmin?
But when the silver dove descends
I find the little flower of friends
Whose very name that sweetly ends
I say when I have said, 'Yasmin'.
The morning light is clear and cold,
I dare not in that light behold
A deeper light, a deeper gold
a glory too far shed, Yasmin.
But when the deep red eye of day
is level with the lone highway,
And some to Mecca turn to pray,
and I toward thy bed, Yasmin,
Or when the wind beneath the moon
is dazzling like a soul aswoon,
And harping planets talk love's tune
with milky wings outspread, Yasmin,
Shine down thy love, O burning bright!
for one night or the other night
Will come the Gardener in white,
and gather'd flowers are dead, Yasmin!
James Elroy Flecker (5 november 1884 – 3 januari 1915)
De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Ella Wheeler Wilcox werd geboren op 5 november 1850 in Johnstown, Wisconsin. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 november 2008.
A Golden Day
The subtle beauty of this day
Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell,
And care and grief have flown away,
And every breeze sings, "all is well."
I ask, "Holds earth or sin, or woe?"
My heart replies, "I do not know."
Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart,
Today is joy undimmed, complete;
In tears or pain we have no part;
The act of breathing is so sweet,
We care no higher joy to name.
What reck we now of wealth or fame?
The past--what matters it to me?
The pain it gave has passed away.
The future--that I cannot see!
I care for nothing save today--
This is a respite from all care,
And trouble flies--I know not where.
Go on, oh noisy, restless life!
Pass by, oh, feet that seek for heights!
I have no part in aught of strife;
I do not want your vain delights.
The day wraps round me like a spell
And every breeze sings, "All is well."
Ella Wheeler Wilcox (5 november 1850 – 30 oktober 1919)
05-11-2009 om 20:19
geschreven door Romenu