Candy is the Air of the Night:
A Few Popular Poems Which Have Been Translated Into French by Babelfish
and Then Changed Back To English
It Is Right to Indicate
William Carlos Williams
I ate the plums
which were in the icebox
and which you probably
back up
for the Pardonnez breakfast
me
that they were delicious
so soft and so cold
Spring and Falls: With
an Infant
Gerald Manley Hopkins
Margaret, do you afflict
yourselves above Goldengrove unleaving?
Leave, like the things
of the man, you with your fresh care of thoughts for, can you?
Ampèreheure, as heart
ages it will come at such colder sights sometimes, nor saving a
sigh, although worlds of lie leafmeal of wanwood;
But you will cry and know
why. Maintaining any matter, child, the name, the springs of the
pain are not identical. Neither the mouth had, not nor the spirit
expressed which heart intended to speak, guessed backup computer:
It is the difficult situation
that the man was constant for, it is Margaret whom you cry for.
Plage
Matthew Arnold Of
Dover
The sea is calm this evening.
The tide is full, the
right moon lies
On the straits; - on the
French coast the light
Shines and went; the cliffs
of England are held,
Outside in the compartment
of tranquil.
Come in Window my love,
candy is the air of night!
Only, of the long line
of the jet
Where the sea meets the
moon-bleached ground, listen!
You here the unmatched
howl of stones,
That the waves draw behind,
and throw on their return
To the top of the high
strand, start, and
Cease, and other side
start, by slow timid rate,
And bring the eternal
note of sadness in.
Sophocles heard a long
ago
On the Aegean one, and
it introduced into its spirit
The turbid backward flow
and the flow of human misery;
We also find in this noise
a thought, understanding it by
This distant Scandinavian
sea.
The sea of the faith was
in the past,
Therefore, with full,
and the configuration
Of the shore of the round
ground as
The folds of a luminous
belt furled.
But now I hear only his
melancholy, length,
Withdrawing the howl reprocessing
with the
Breath of the night-wind,
in bottom of the vast sad edges
And the naked shingles
of the world.
The ampèreheure, love,
left either truth to us to another,
For the world, which seems
to be in front of us like a ground
Of the so various dreams,
thus beautiful joy, the thus new one, of
Hath really neither, neither
the love, neither the light,
Neither the certainty,
neither peace, nor the assistance for the pain;
And we are here as on
a plane darkling swept with confuse
Alarms of the fight and
the flight,
Where ignorant dissension
of armies per night
