James Joyce Read by Jim Norton Finnegans Wake Book One Chapter One (1)

Psalm 58 S. Vere Utique by Mary (Countess of Pembroke) Sidney Herbert

Psalm 58 Si Vere Utique
And call ye this to utter what is just
You that of justice hold the sovereign throne?
And call ye this, to yield, O sons of dust,
To wronge`d brethren every man his own?
O no! It is your long malicious will
Now to the world to make by practice known
With whose oppression you the balance fill:
Just to yourselves, indifferent1 else to none.
But what could they, who even in birth declined
From truth and right to lies and injuries?
To show the venom of their cankered mind
The adders image scarcely can suffice;
Nay, scarce the aspic2 may with them contend,
On whom the charmer all in vain applies
His skilfullst spells, aye missing of his end,
While she, self-deaf and unaffected, lies.
Lord, crack their teeth! Lord, crush these lions jaws!
So let them sink as water in the sand.
When deadly bow their aiming fury draws,
1. If heaven had spared your life so that you could
have completed your representation of human life.
2. The least part—all that she, with her limitations
as a writer, is able to express. Professions of
a writers inadequacy are conventional.
3. My sorrow would mount to heaven to meet
you, presuming that the justness of my cause
would allow me (however personally unworthy)
entrance there.
Shiver the shaft ere past the shooters hand.
So make them melt as the dishouse`d snail,
Or as the embryo whose vital band
Breaks ere it holds, and formless eyes do fail
To see the sun, though brought to lightful land.
O let their brood, a brood of springing thorns,
Be by untimely rooting overthrown;
Ere bushes waxed,3 they push with pricking horns,
As fruits yet green are oft by tempest blown.
The good with gladness this revenge shall see
And bathe his feet in blood of wicked one
While all shall say, The just rewarded be;
There is a God that carves to each his own.
1. Impartial.
2. The asp, a small poisonous snake.

Patterns by Amy Lowell

i walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon --
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

English to Welsh translation "A"

English to Welsh translation
"A"
Ac yr wyf yn awr yn hen
Cael eu geni yn Gyntaf
Yn fy clan dad
Dydd a golau
Ddaear a'r nefoedd

yr enaid
David, y dyn.

Y mynyddoedd delineate
Fy faint bach. Mae hyn David dyn
yw Dyn sy'n caru heddwch.

"และ"

English to Thai translation
"และ"
และ ฉัน อายุ ตอน นี้
การ คลอด First
ใน ตระกูล พ่อ ของ ฉัน
วัน และ ไฟ
แผ่นดิน และ ชั้น ฟ้า ทั้งหลาย

ชีวิต นี้
David มนุษย์ นี้.

ภูเขา วาด ภาพ
ขนาด เล็ก ของ ฉัน. นี้ David มนุษย์
เป็น ผู้ รัก สันติภาพ.
"læa"
læa c̄hạn xāyu txn nī̂
kār khlxd First
nı trakūl ph̀x k̄hxng c̄hạn
wạn læa fị
p̄hæ̀ndin læa chận f̂ā thậng h̄lāy

chīwit nī̂
David mnus̄ʹy̒ nī̂.

p̣hūk̄heā wād p̣hāph
k̄hnād lĕk k̄hxng c̄hạn. nī̂ David mnus̄ʹy̒
pĕn p̄hū̂ rạk s̄ạntip̣hāph.

Indonesian

"Dan"
Dan aku sekarang tua
Menjadi Pertama lahir
Dalam ayahku marga
Hari dan cahaya
Bumi dan langit

jiwa ini
Daud, orang ini.

Menggambarkan pegunungan
Ukuran kecil saya. Pria ini David
adalah seorang Manusia yang mencintai Perdamaian.

English to Estonian translation

English to Estonian translation
"Ja"
Ja nüüd olen vana
On esimene sündinud
Minu isa klanni
Päev ja valgus
Maa ja taevas

see hing
David, see mees on.

Mäed piiritlemiseks
Minu väike. See mees David
on mees, kes armastab rahu.

English to Vietnamese translation

English to Vietnamese translation

"Và"
Và bây giờ tôi cũ
Là sinh đầu tiên
Trong gia tộc của cha tôi
Ngày và ánh sáng
Trái đất và trời

linh hồn này
David, người đàn ông này.

Những dãy núi phân định
Của tôi kích thước nhỏ. Điều này David man
Con người là một người yêu hòa bình.

The Loves of Cyrano -- A Piano Piece by David Hart

The Loves of Cyrano -- A Piano Piece by David Hart
Hector Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac (6 March 1619 28 July 1655) was a French dramatist and duellist who is now best remembered for the many works of fiction which have been woven around his life story. In these fictional works he is featured with an overly large nose; portraits suggest that he did have a big nose, though not nearly as large as described in Edmond Rostand's play and the subsequent works about him. A statue of him stands in the town of Bergerac, Dordogne.

Signs of Stigmata: A Piano Compostion by David Hart

Signs of Stigmata: A Piano Compostion by David Hart
Stigmata (from Greek: stizo, to prick) refers to the five wounds that were said to be inflicted on Jesus' body during his crucifixion, and to similar wounds resembling Jesus' puncture marks that have mysteriously appeared on others. Stigmata are traditionally located at the specific spots where Jesus' flesh is said to have been pierced during his crucifiction: namely his wrists (two wounds from nails), his shins (one wound from a nail), his head (bleeding from a crown of thorns), and his heart (one wound inflicted by a Roman soldiers spear). A person who spontaneously bears one or more of these wounds is called a stigmatic. Stigmatics are most commonly found in Christianity, particularly the Roman Catholic Church, although there have been documented cases elsewhere.

The causes of stigmata are largely mysterious, but some observers suggest that stigmata are found in deeply pious individuals who overwhelmingly empathize with the suffering of Jesus. Reactions to the phenomena are varied, ranging from doubt and skepticism to praise and reverence. Many people, especially in Latin America, see the marks of stigmata as signs of saintliness and faith. The other important matter related to stigmata (and similar physical manifestations related to religious faith) concern questions regarding boundaries between the spiritual and the physical. Often scientists endeavor to understand this relationship through rigorous controlled experiments on such things as prayer, healing, and other spiritual and religious activity.