mific: (Sheppard reads Tolstoy)
mific ([personal profile] mific) wrote in [community profile] drawesome 2017-10-08 03:17 pm (UTC)

Here are some more quotes and poems. :)

Être adulte, c’est être seul. - Jean Rostand - To be adult is to be alone.

L’enfer, c’est les autres - J-P Sartre - “Hell is other people.”

La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel. - Victor Hugo - “Life is a flower of which love is the honey.”

Aimer, ce n’est pas se regarder l’un l’autre, c’est regarder ensemble dans la même direction. - Antoine de Saint-Exupery - “Love doesn’t mean gazing at each other, but looking, together, in the same direction.”

"Le seul vrai langage au monde est un baiser." - Alfred de Musset - “The only true language in the world is a kiss.”

"Le monde est un livre dont chaque pas nous ouvre une page." - Alphonse de Lamartine - “The world is a book – with each step we open a page.”

Un seul être vous manque et tout est dépeuplé. - Alphonse de Lamartine - “Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated.”


From e.e. cummings' poems:

"i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)"

"It's always our self we find in the sea.”

“Yours is the light by which my spirit's born: you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.”

“I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance”


Some Haiku:

An orphaned blossom
returning to its bough, somehow?
No, a solitary butterfly.
― Arakida Moritake (1472-1549), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A crow settles
on a withered branch:
autumn nightfall.
― Matsuo Basho (1644-1694), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A white swan
parts the cherry-petalled pond
with her motionless breast.
Roka (1671-1703), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water.
― Matsuo Basho (1644-1694), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

One apple, alone
In the abandoned orchard
reddens for winter
― Patrick Blanche, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Will we meet again?
Here at your flowering grave:
two white butterflies
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

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