Spring

All men are now greedy,
All women are shouting,
Hide yourself in your hump,
Remain alone -

Alfred Lichtenstein

Alfred Lichtenstein was a German poet and writer known for his expressionist works. Born on August 23, 1889, in Berlin, he studied law at the University of Berlin. His works often reflect the grim realities of early 20th-century Europe and the senseless horrors of World War I. He volunteered for military service at the outbreak of WWI and was subsequently killed in action on September 25, 1914. Lichtenstein's legacy lives on through his poignant and often haunting poetry.

Alfred Lichtenstein

Morning

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

Prayer before Battle

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

Girls

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

Bad Weather

Alfred Lichtenstein, Simple Poetry

English

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Spring

A certain Rudolf called out:
I have eaten too much.
Whether it's healthy is very questionable.
After such a greasy lunch
I really feel uncomfortable.
But I belch beautifully and smoke
Cigarettes now and then.
Lying on my heavy belly,
I chirp nothing but songs of spring.
Longingly, as though on a ramp
The voice squeals from the throat.
And like an old lamp
The wind blackens the bitter soul.

Alfred Lichtenstein

Cloudy Evening

The sky is swollen with tears and melancholy.
Only far off, where its foul vapors burst,
Green glow pours down.    The houses,
Gray grimaces, are fiendishly bloated with mist.

Yellowish lights are beginning to gleam.
A stout father with wife and children dozes.
Painted women are practicing their dances.
Grotesque mimes strut towards the theater.

Jokers shriek, foul connoisseurs of men:
The day is dead... and a name remains!
Powerful men gleam in girls' eyes.
A woman yearns for her beloved woman.

Alfred Lichtenstein

Spring

        To what purpose, April, do you return again?
        Beauty is not enough.
        You can no longer quiet me with the redness
        Of little leaves opening stickily.
        I know what I know.
        The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
        The spikes of the crocus.
        The smell of the earth is good.
        It is apparent that there is no death.
        But what does that signify?
        Not only under ground are the brains of men
        Eaten by maggots,
        Life in itself
        Is nothing,
        An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
        It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
        April
        Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Girls

They cannot stand their rooms in the evening.
They creep out into deep starry streets.

How gentle is the world in the streetlights' wind!
How strangely buzzing life melts away...
They go by gardens and houses,
As though very far off there might be a light,
And they look upon every horny man
As a sweet gentleman savior

Alfred Lichtenstein

Spring

Nothing is so beautiful as spring -
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Spring Morning

Ah, through the open door
Is there an almond tree
Aflame with blossom!
    - Let us fight no more.

Among the pink and blue
Of the sky and the almond flowers
A sparrow flutters.
    - We have come through,

It is really spring! - See,
When he thinks himself alone
How he bullies the flowers.
    - Ah, you and me

How happy we'll be! - See him
He clouts the tufts of flowers
In his impudence.
    - But, did you dream

It would be so bitter? Never mind
It is finished, the spring is here.
And we're going to be summer-happy
And summer-kind.

We have died, we have slain and been slain,
We are not our old selves any more.
I feel new and eager
To start again.

It is gorgeous to live and forget.
...

David Herbert Richards Lawrence