The poems of romanticism they will leave you with the feeling of an atmosphere of beauty in the air. The poetic texts of this era that had its birth in the 18th century privilege the individuality and freedom of the human being as a creative being..
If you want to know a little more about the exciting world of poems of romanticism, what you are going to learn next You will love it!
Romanticism is called a cultural, artistic, social and intellectual movement, gestated in the eighteenth century in Europe, however the true boom of Romanticism occurs in the nineteenth century where it spread throughout Europe and other parts of the world. When the poems of Romanticism appeared, the literary world was convulsed, given the variations that it proposed.
Romanticism was the door to different artistic, humanistic and cultural currents, showing new aspects of human existence that came into direct attack with artistic currents such as the Enlightenment. The poems of Romanticism They appealed for the free expression of being and they returned poetry to the world.
The poems of Romanticism stand out for rescuing individuality and emotions, that is why some of their most important characteristics are:
These are roughly the characteristics of the poems of romanticism. Next we will leave you with some examples of annotated poems by great authors so that you delve deeper into the spirit of the time.
Below we will share a selection of poems of romanticism. Each of the authors is considered an icon of the time thanks to their particular use of language.
These romantic poems have something curious, and it is that it is an especially bright time for women as a creator and intellectual.
These poems also bring us closer to our most sensitive part, to that connection we have with the natural world and that awakens when we dare to awaken a sensitive gaze..
Now, without further ado, I hope you enjoy these Romanticism poems and if you want you can leave us your comment on the one you like the most..
We will not roam again
That's right, we won't roam again
So late at night,
Although the heart continues to love
And the moon keep the same brightness.
For the sword wears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the chest,
And the heart must stop to breathe,
And still love must rest.
Although the night was made to love,
And too soon the days return,
Still we won't roam again
To the light of the Moon.
Love sometimes requires the necessary breaks to check its health. In this little exercise, sometimes we understand that we love and sometimes that everything that was love has stopped beating..
Like the breeze that blows blood
on the dark battlefield,
loaded with perfumes and harmonies
in the silence of the vague night,
Symbol of pain and tenderness,
of the English bard in the horrible drama,
sweet Ophelia, the lost reason,
picking flowers and singing passes.
Madness and misguidance are typical of romantic love. The feeling that without the other life loses meaning, is one of the senseless sensations of falling in love that makes the loss of the object of desire become a condemnation.
Fresh, lush, pure and fragrant,
gala and flowery pensil adornment,
gallant placed on the upright bouquet,
fragrance spreads the rising rose.
But if the burning sun an angry fire
vibrate, of the burning cannon lit,
the sweet scent and the lost color,
its leaves carry the hurried aura.
This is how my luck shone for a moment
on wings of love, and beautiful cloud
I pretended maybe of glory and joy.
But, oh, that good turned into bitterness,
and leafless in the air it rises
the sweet flower of my hope.
Expectations are often responsible for our greatest pains. In fact, from various spiritual currents it is considered that hope is the beginning of pain.
This living hand, now warm and capable
To grip firmly, if I was cold
And in the frozen silence of the grave,
In such a way I would enchant your days and freeze your dreams
That you wish your own heart to dry of blood
So that in my veins red life would run again,
And you quiet your conscience - you see it, here it is-
I hold it in front of you.
As the old saying goes "No one knows what they have until they lose it" Sometimes we discover that what we had was vital, but sometimes when we find this truth it is too late..
Since the time of my childhood, I have not been
as others were, I have not seen
as others saw, I could not get
my passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
my sorrow; would not wake up
my heart to joy with the same tone;
And everything I wanted, I wanted it alone.
Then -in my childhood- at dawn
from a very stormy life, he took
from every depth of the good and the bad
the mystery that still binds me:
from the stream or the fountain,
from the red rock of the mountain,
from the sun that revolved around me
in its golden-tinged autumn,
from the lightning in the sky
that was flying past me,
from the thunder and the storm,
and the cloud that took shape
(when the rest of the sky was blue)
of a demon before my sight.
Feeling alone in the world, feeling that we do not fit into society is typical of sensitive souls. This discovery allows us to find the depths of our being by exploring its lights and shadows. Sometimes loneliness is the only way to connect with the universe.
Who will chain a joy to himself
will spoil the winged life.
But who will kiss the joy in its flutter
live in the dawn of eternity.
Happiness is a transitory state, those who try to cling to the sublime have pain as payment. Joy be enjoyed when it comes and let it fly when the time is right. Detachment as a path to harmony.
I got drunk on that honey wine
from the lunar cocoon of bramble rose,
that the fairies collect in hyacinth glasses:
dormouse, bats and moles
they sleep between the walls or on the grass,
in the deserted and sad courtyard of the castle;
when the wine spilled on the summer land
or amid the dew its vapors rise,
their happy dreams are filled with joy
and, asleep, they murmur their joy; well few
They are the fairies that wear those chalices so new.
Fairies are part of the fantastic spirits most associated with the feminine. Mary Shelley celebrates them based on their relationship with nature and its magical effects on the landscape.
I think a blade of grass is no less
that the work day of the stars,
and that an ant is perfect,
and a grain of sand,
and the egg of the regulus,
they are equally perfect,
and that the frog is a masterpiece,
worthy of the designated,
and that the blackberry could adorn,
the halls of paradise,
and that the smallest joint in my hand,
shame the machines,
and that the cow that grazes, with its head bowed,
surpass all statues,
and that a mouse is miracle enough,
as to make doubt,
to six trillion infidels.
The magic of life is everywhere, it only depends on the focus of our perception to make it visible. Gratitude for the perfection of a grain of sand or an emotion brings us closer to the divine.
And you, who are you from the wandering night
apparition that you pass silently,
crossing the undulating spaces
behind the vapors of the watery cloud?
black the earth, sad the firmament,
blind my eyes without your light were,
and sighing in the dark wind
dark spirits roamed.
I was waiting for you, and when I saw your reds
profiles appear with slow calm,
as your lightning descended into my eyes,
tender joy descended into my soul.
And do you go lazy to my prayers
when loving the heart yearns for you?
Come to me, soft, nocturnal, beautiful light
daughter of heaven, come: why so late!
The moon is a source of inspiration for poets, lovers and crazy people. Who has not been delirious looking at the silver moon, has not tasted the intoxication of beauty.
I will come when you are sad,
alone in the dark room;
when the mad glee of the day fades away,
and the smiling joy dissipates
from the cold darkness of the night.
I will come when in your heart
the purest emotion reigns,
and my sway, slipping into you,
deepening the sorrow, freezing the joy,
destroy your soul.
Hey this is the time,
your terrible moment.
Don't you feel about your soul
roll a stream of strange sensations,
announcement of a stronger power,
heralds of mine?
Love has a mystical force that transcends time and space. Those we love stay with us even if they are not physically.
I will leave. Maybe in a long time
see you again, Diotima! But the desire will already be
bled then, and gentle
as blessed we will stroll, strangers, close to each other
conversing, rambling, dreaming, until this very place of the
goodbye rescue our souls from oblivion
and warm our hearts.
Then I will look at you again in surprise, listening
as once the sweet song, the voices, the chords of the lute,
and beyond the stream the golden lily
will breathe out its fragrance towards us.
When lovers say goodbye, love seems to be extinguished, it rests resigned in the ashes of indifference. However, those who love each other can never forget and before a remote encounter the flame of love can be rekindled..
When figures and figures cease to be
the keys of every creature,
when those who sing or kiss
know more than the deepest sages,
when freedom returns to the world again,
the world becomes the world again,
when at last the lights and shadows merge
and together they become perfect clarity,
when in verses and stories
there are the true stories of the world,
then a single secret word
will banish the discords of the whole Earth.
The freedom to be who we are, to explore ourselves, to embrace our lights and shadows, may be the only way to clothe ourselves with love for ourselves and for others..
They say that plants do not speak, nor fountains, nor birds,
nor does he wave with his rumors, nor with his brightness the stars,
They say it, but it is not true, because always when I pass
they murmur about me and exclaim:
There goes the crazy woman dreaming
with the eternal spring of life and fields,
and very soon, very soon, her hair will be gray,
and sees trembling, chilled, that frost covers the meadow.
-There is gray on my head, there is frost in the meadows,
but I keep dreaming, poor, incurable sleepwalker,
with the eternal spring of my life that is extinguished
and the perennial freshness of fields and souls,
although some are withered and although others are burned.
Stars and fountains and flowers, do not murmur about my dreams,
without them, how to admire you or how to live without them?
The connection with nature is a mirror in front of our own being. Life speaks with mysterious languages that contain, reveal and transform us. Listening to the heartbeat of life in everything, discovering our own secrets in the tree is one of the virtues of those who contemplate the natural.
When at last two souls meet,
That for so long they have searched for each other in the crowd,
When they realize that they are couples,
That are understood and correspond,
In a word, they are alike,
then forever arises a vehement and pure union like themselves,
a union that begins on earth and lasts in heaven.
That union is love,
authentic love, as in truth very few men can conceive,
love that is a religion,
That deifies the loved one whose life emanates
Of fervor and passion and for whom the sacrifices
Greater are the sweetest joys.
The encounter with love is the most transcendental encounter of our life, it does not matter if it lasts an hour, a month or a whole life, love is a fire that does not cease, it is a connection that can never be escaped, even if it is want.
At sunset, the happy girl
turn of the countryside
with its bundle of grass and the flowery bouquet
in which they look both purple and pink,
and that, innocent, prepares
to garnish joyfully
chest and hair when the party arrives.
On par with the neighbor
sit the old woman spinning on the threshold
turning his face to the star that declines,
and is transported to the distant station
when, still fresh maiden,
danced at the end of the week,
with her friends of the most beautiful age.
The air darkens,
the horizons are tinged with blue,
and the shadows of the mountains descend
when the candid moon appears.
The tower of the village
the party announces, and its happy sounds
come down to comfort hearts.
On the square the vivacious gang
of raptors screaming
and here and there jumping,
it raises a buzz that encourages and exults;
while whistling the labrador returns
and sitting at your table
with the rest that he foresees, he enjoys.
When the silence with the shadow grows
and all light dies,
I hear the hammer that stubbornly hits
in the workshop, when the officer is busy
for leaving the task finished
before the morning dawns.
This is the week
the most beautiful and the last day.
Tomorrow they will turn annoyance and grief,
and to the usual task
each one will return as they used to.
Funny young man!
Your sweet flowery age
it's like a day of full exhilaration,
clear and serene day,
that precedes the party of your life.
Enjoy, enjoy it then! Flower age,
soft season is this:
I'll tell you nothing more; but do not cry
if your longed-for party is delayed.
Youth is an invaluable treasure, the freshness of this time is compared to the glare of the sun, the only problem is that few of us realize how precious it is. Rebellion, freedom, purity and spontaneity are the elixir of a young heart.
Put the Creator in your elusive eyes
How beautiful my crazy mind dreamed;
To quench the thirst of my burning soul
Gave a mortal angel your red lips.
The yearning bosom ... The blushes
May the marble stain your chaste forehead,
The soft lullaby of your sorrowful voice
If you see shadows or anger on my face ...
Love! Ideal love of my delusions,
Eternal love that the soul sensed,
Reward of cruel martyrdoms,
He put Heaven in your virgin heart
To make you on earth only mine,
In my existence light, glory and consolation.
Eternal love is one that comes to settle in each fragment of our life to transform everything. The eternity of love is proportional to the fire of the dedication of the lovers, who, ignorant of the world, are incorporated into a single heart.
We hope that this selection of poems from Romanticism has left a chill of beauty in your heart.
If these poems of romanticism you liked them, I'm sure you will love this top of Baroque Poems.
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