The great advantage of being alive
I desire more poetry on this site. So here is more poetry!
I believe this is Cummings due to the style and some cursory internet searches but I was unable to find an authoritative source. If anyone has one I'll edit it in! The formatting is taken from a book (I discovered this in a photo online).
the great advantage of being alive
(instead of undying)is not so much
that mind no more can disprove than prove
what heart may feel and soul may touch
--the great(my darling) happens to be
that love are in we,that love are in weand here is a secret they will never share
for whom create is less than have
or one times one than when times where--
that we are in love,that we are in love
with us they've nothing times nothing to do
(for love are in we am in i am in you)this world(as timorous itsters all
to call their cowardice quite agree)
shall never discover our touch and feel
--for love are in we are in love are in we;
for you are and i am and we are(above
and under all possible worlds)in lovea billion brains may coax undeath
from fancied fact and spaceful time--
no heart can leap,no soul can breathe
but by the sizeless truth of a dream
whose sleep is the sky and the earth and the sea.
For love are in you am in i are in we
使有什伯之器
而不用；
使民重死
而不遠徙。
雖有舟輿，
無所乘之，
雖有甲兵，
無所陳之。
使民復結繩
而用之。
甘其食，
美其服，
安其居，
樂其俗。
鄰國相望，
雞犬之聲
相聞，
民至老死，
不相往來。
Shǐ yǒu shénbǎi zhī qì
Ér bù yòng;
Shǐ mín zhòngsǐ
Ér bù yuǎnxǐ.
Suī yǒu zhōu yú,
Wú suǒ chéng zhī,
Suī yǒu jiǎ bīng,
Wú suǒ chén zhī.
Shǐ mín fù jié shéng
Ér yòng zhī.
Gān qí shí,
Měi qí fú,
Ān qí jū,
Lè qí sú.
Línguó xiāng wàng,
Jī quǎn zhī shēng
Xiāng wén,
Mín zhì lǎo sǐ,
Bù xiāng wǎnglái.
A thousand devices,
But none are used.
The people weigh death
And do not travel far.
They have carriages and boats,
But no one goes on board;
Weapons and armor,
But no one brandishes them.
The people use knotted cords
For counting.
Sweet their food,
Beautiful their clothes,
Peaceful their homes,
Delightful their customs.
Neighboring countries are so close
You can hear
Their chickens and dogs,
But people grow old and die
Without needing to come and go.
Full passage with variants can be found here.
One of my favorites:
A Psalm of Life
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Wow, I love that! Very cool to see such a similar message conveyed with such a different style.
We found this while my wife was pregnant, so "learn to labor and to wait" took on a whole different meaning.
Try prefixing lines with one or two em-spaces:
 Thanks, I thought I tried
and it didn't work. Maybe I just misspelled it.London, my beautiful,
It is not the sunset
Nor the pale green sky
Shimmering through the curtain
Of the silver birch,
Nor the quietness;
It is not the hopping
Of the little birds
Upon the lawn,
Nor the darkness
Stealing over all things
That moves me.
But as the moon creeps slowly
Over the tree-tops
Among the stars,
I think of her
And the glow her passing
Sheds on men.
London, my beautiful,
I will climb
Into the branches
To the moonlit tree-tops,
That my blood may be cooled
By the wind.
— F. S. Flint