by Robert Frost


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

- af Tove Ditlevsen

Der brænder et lys i natten.

Det brænder alene for mig.

Men puster du til det så flammer det op

og flammer alene for mig.

Men taler du stille og hvisker du tyst

er lyset pludseligt mere end lyst,

og brænder dybt i mit eget bryst.

Alene for dig.


by Fiona Macleod

1. A little lonely child am I
That have not any soul;
God made me as the homeless wave,
That has no goal.
3. He took a wave and drowned her, 
She took a wave and lifted him;
And I was born where shadows are
In sea-depths dim.
5. But when the gloom is on the wave 
A shell unto the shore I bring;
And then upon the rocks I sit
and plaintive sing.
2. A seal my father was, a seal 
That once was man;
My mother loved him tho' he was
'Neath mortal ban.
4. All through the sunny blue-sweet hours
I swim and glide in waters green;
Never by day the mournful shoures
By me are seen. 
 6. I have no playmate but the tide
The seaweed loves with dark brown eyes;
The night-waves have the stars for play,
For me but sighs. 

Puck´s speech from A Midsummernights Dream

- by William Shakespeare


If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
If you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth.
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.


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