Euclid

EUCLID

Old Euclid drew a circle
On a sand-beach long ago.
He bounded and enclosed it
With angles thus and so.
His set of solemn greybeards
Nodded and argued much
Of arc and of circumference,
Diameter and such.
A silent child stood by them
From morning until noon
Because they drew such charming
Round pictures of the moon.
–Vachel Lindsay(b. 10 November 1879)

Read more on: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Euclid

If by Rudyard Kipling

IF.....
rudyard kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Español:

Si guardas en tu puesto la cabeza tranquila,
cuando todo a tu lado es cabeza perdida.
Si tienes en ti mismo una fe que te niegan
y no desprecias nunca las dudas que ellos tengan.

Si esperas en tu puesto, sin fatiga en la espera.
Si engañado, no engañas.
Si no buscas más odio, que el odio que te tengan.
Si eres bueno, y no finges ser mejor de lo que eres.

Si al hablar no exageras, lo que sabes y quieres.
Si sueñas y los sueños no te hacen su esclavo.
Si piensas y rechazas lo que piensas en vano.
Si alcanzas el TRIUNFO ó llega tu DERROTA,
y a los dos impostores les tratas de igual forma.

Si logras que se sepa la verdad que has hablado,
a pesar del sofisma del Orbe encanallado.
Si vuelves al comienzo de la obra perdida,
aunque esta obra sea la de toda tu vida.

Si arriesgas de un golpe y lleno de alegría,
tus ganancias de siempre a la suerte de un día,
y pierdes, y te lanzas de nuevo a la pelea,
sin decir nada a nadie lo que eres, ni lo que eras.

Si logras que los nervios y el corazón te asistan,
aún después de su fuga, en tu cuerpo en fatiga,
y se agarren contigo, cuando no quede nada,
porque tú lo deseas, lo quieres y mandas.

Si hablas con el pueblo, y guardas la virtud.
Si marchas junto a Reyes, con tu paso y tu luz.
Si nadie que te hiera, llega a hacerte la herida.
Si todos te reclaman, y ninguno te precisa.

Si llenas el minuto inolvidable y cierto,
de sesenta segundos, que te llevan al cielo.
TODO lo de esta Tierra será de tu dominio,
Y mucho más aún ...

¡ Serás un HOMBRE, hijo mío !

Isabel del Río

A poem is a mirror,

a broken but perfect image

of a broken but perfect mirror.

You can see my image

and your image

and the image which is hidden

in its deepest glass.

Finnegan's Wake

Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street,
a gentle Irishman mighty odd
He had a brogue both rich and sweet,
an' to rise in the world he carried a hod
You see he'd a sort of a tipplers way
but the love for the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on his way each day,
he'd a drop of the creator every morn.

Whack fol the dah now dance to your partner
around the floor your trotters shake
Wasn't it the truth I told you?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

One morning Tim got rather full,
his head felt heavy which made him shake
Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull,
and they carried him home his corpse to wake
Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet,
and laid him out upon the bed
A bottle of whiskey at his feet
and a barrel of porter at his head.

His friends assembled at the wake,
and Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch
First she brought in tea and cake,
then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
Biddy O'Brien began to cry,
"Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see,
Tim avourneen, why did you die?",
"Will you hold your gob?" said Paddy McGee.

Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job,
"Biddy" says she "you're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
and left her sprawling on the floor
Then the war did soon engage,
t'was woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh law was all the rage
and a row and a ruction soon began.

Mickey Maloney ducked his head
when a bucket of whiskey flew at him
It missed, and falling on the bed,
the liquor scattered over Tim
Bedad he revives, see how he rises,
Timothy rising from the bed
Saying "Whittle your whiskey around like blazes,
thunderin' Jesus, do ye think I'm dead?"
Finnegan's Wake
Irish traditional

Dies Slowly by Pablo Neruda

Dies slowly he who transforms himself in slave of habit, repeating every day the same itineraries, who does not change brand, does not risk to wear a new color and doesn't talk to whom doesn't know.
Dies slowly he who makes of television his guru.
Dies slowly he who avoids a passion, who prefers black to white and the dots on the "i" to a whirlpool of emotions, just those ones that recover the gleam from the eyes, smiles from the yawns, hearts from the stumbling and feelings.
Dies slowly he who does not overthrow the table when is unhappy at work, who does not risk the certain for the uncertain to go toward that dream that is keeping him awake.
Who does not allow, at least one time in life, to flee from sensate advises.
Dies slowly he who does not travel, does not read, does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself.