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 Title   [ Click any title below to view poem ]Category Date
 The Sower Inspirational Poems 11/4/2019
 The Old Yellow Truck By The Tree Inspirational Poems 10/21/2019
 In Harmony With Nature Inspirational Poems 10/17/2019
 The Golden Memory Of The Scarecrow Inspirational Poems 10/14/2019
  Perfume of the Fall Nature 10/10/2019
 Feline Beauty Friends 10/9/2019
 Autumn poetic Spirit Dark Poetry 10/8/2019
  Wide Screen Poesy Nature 10/6/2019
 Blood of The Dead Leaves Dark Poetry 9/27/2019
 When The Graves reject their dead  Misc 9/27/2019
 Hooked On Crooks Limerick 9/23/2019
 Ugly Carr Limerick 9/23/2019
 If The Mountains Were Cubic Forms  Childrens Poetry 9/22/2019
 A Voice Like Volcano Limerick 9/20/2019
 Game Of Stones Childrens Poetry 9/19/2019
 A dead Ghost Limerick 9/19/2019
 Teaching Rehearsal Limerick 9/19/2019
 Be and Go ! Limerick 9/19/2019
 NonSense LimeRichter Limerick 9/19/2019
 If The Mountains Were Cubic Forms Childrens Poetry 11/30/2012

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The Sower

The lights of the twilight fade
At the gate watchful, i sit
The bright dark, in my shade
Shines on such a working heat

The lands in darkness veiled
I stand to watch in awe
Old man in rags, still nailed
Casts future crops in furrow

A tall black silhouette stands
In the dead of sweating toil
The future will be granted
If present worth's not spoiled

In the vast plains he strides
To and fro, seeds widely cast
And more grain on both sides
I witness, as times go past

And as long shadows, are thrown
That the darkness now, unfurls
The seeds close to stars are sown
From august hand that hurls

Titre : Saison des semailles (Le soir) a translated poetry

Poète : Victor Hugo (1802-1885)

Recueil : Les chansons des rues et des bois (1865).

C'est le moment crépusculaire.
J'admire, assis sous un portail,
Ce reste de jour dont s'éclaire
La dernière heure du travail.

Dans les terres, de nuit baignées,
Je contemple, ému, les haillons
D'un vieillard qui jette à poignées
La moisson future aux sillons.

Sa haute silhouette noire
Domine les profonds labours.
On sent à quel point il doit croire
À la fuite utile des jours.

Il marche dans la plaine immense,
Va, vient, lance la graine au loin,
Rouvre sa main, et recommence,
Et je médite, obscur témoin,

Pendant que, déployant ses voiles,
L'ombre, où se mêle une rumeur,
Semble élargir jusqu'aux étoiles
Le geste auguste du semeur.

Victor Hugo.

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