A Jewish poet once wrote: "God gave a pen to the English,

god gave finns autism

the end

>>72734815
God ga... spurdo burdo XDxdxdXD

"Français qui m’écoutez, rappelez-vous les vertus de vos ancêtres. Plus qu’à toute autre nation, Dieu vous a donné la gloire des armes."

"Frenchmen who are listening to me, remember the virtues of your ancestors. More than any other nation, God gave your the glory of arms"

- Urban II

>inb4 lol the french are cowards

>>72734778
>>72735067
Oops, didn't see it was about poems

>>72735067
>Urban II was french

God bless the United States, and nowhere else.

>>72734778
Poetry and Judaism are antonyms

>>72735067
FUCKING THIS

mfw we're the first people mentioned in the Councils of the Catholic Church were the French, feels good

>>72735511
Before being French, he was a Pope

>>72734778
I guess god gave us a pillow

>>72735067
based pope

God gave Bulgarians gypsies.
Fuck god.

>>72734778
God gave vodka to poles
God gave thief abilities to russians

A la gilada ni cabida yo la miro desde arriba

-brian

Josip Stritar - Pariz

Nisem Nemec, dekle lépo!
Nisem Rus, Italijan;
Nisem Turek, nisem Španec,
Tudi pust ne Angličan.

Kaj ti bo, če imenujem
Narod svoj in rojstni kraj;
Vé Francozinje se v šolah
Ne učite bog vé kaj.

Malo veste, kje dežela
Ona ali ta leží;
Vendar to pa bolje znate,
Kaj življenje nam sladí.

Glej! tam doli, daleč, daleč,
Več ko tri sto ur hodá,
Tam deželica je mala,
Notri tam sem jaz domá!

Čuden govor, čudna noša,
Drugo je življenje tam;
Le sercé nam za ljubezen
Vroče bije, kakor vam.

Glej! tako okoli pasa
Mi pokladamo rokó;
In na usta mi dekletom
Usta stiskamo -- takó!

>>72735067
Urbain Deux *

File: 1482952941810.jpg (16KB, 338x310px) Image search: [Google]

16KB, 338x310px

If god gave germans a hammer, did he give Russia the sickle?

>>72734778
>Which poems were written about your count's character?
"Spain Was A Mistake"
By Isabel la Católica as well known as the founder of the Spanish Nation.

I'm not German, pretty damsel,
I'm not Russian or Italian
I'm not Turkish, nor Spanish,
And neither a dull Englishman.

What's it to you if I should name
My nation and my place of birth
You French women in your schools
Learn precious little of worth

Little do you know the lay
of this land or of that;
But you know all the better
What makes life worthwhile

Look! Down there oh so distant
More than three hundred hours on foot
There lies a little land
Which I call my home!

Odd of speech and odd of dress,
A different life they lead down there
Only our hearts for love
Do beat the same as yours

Look! Around the waist
thus we slip our hands
And on girls' lips we
press our own - like this!

written c. 1870

>>72743828
I liek spen :(

Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver.

>>72744943
kek

>>72734778

Bunda

God gave a white flag to the French. A white flag was also given to the Italians, but they use it as a table cloth.

I love this one, by Alexander Blok, it's called "Scythians"

Millions are you – and hosts, yea hosts, are we,
And we shall fight if war you want, take heed.
Yes, we are Scythians – leafs of the Asian tree,
Our slanted eyes are bright aglow with greed.

Ages for you, for us the briefest space,
We raised the shield up as your humble lieges
To shelter you, the European race
From the Mongolians’ savage raid and sieges.

Ages, yea ages, did your forges’ thunder
Drown even avalanches’ roar.
Quakes rent Messina and Lisbon asunder –
To you this was a distant tale – no more.

Eastwards you cast your eyes for many hundred years,
Greedy for our precious stones and ore,
And longing for the time when with a leer
You’d yell an order and the guns would roar.

This time is now. Woe beats its wings
And every adds more humiliation
Until the day arrives which brings
An end to placid life in utter spoliation.

You, the old world, now rushing to perdition,
Yet strolling languidly to lethal brinks,
Yours is the ancient Oedipean mission
To seek to solve the riddles of a sphinx.

The sphinx is Russia, sad and yet elated,
Stained with dark blood, with grief prostrate,
For you with longing she has looked and waited,
Replete with ardent love and ardent hate.

Yet how will ever you perceive
That, as we love, as lovingly we yearn,
Our love is neither comfort nor relief
But like a fire will destroy and burn.

We love cold figures’ hot illumination,
The gift of supernatural vision,
We like the Gallic wit’s mordant sensation
And dark Teutonic indecision.

We know it all: in Paris hell’s dark street,
In Venice bright and sunlit colonnades,
The lemon blossoms’ scent so heavy, yet so sweet,
And in Cologne a shadowy arcade.

1/2

We love the flavour and the smell of meat,
The slaughterhouses’ pungent reek.
Why blame us then if in the heat
Of our embrace your bones begin to creak.

We saddle horses wild and shy,
As in the fields so playfully they swerve.
Though they be stubborn, yet we press their thigh
Until they willingly and meekly serve.

Join us! From horror and from strife
Turn to the peace of our embrace.
There is still time. Keep in its sheath your knife.
Comrades, we will be brothers to your race.

Say no – and we are none the worse.
We, too, can utter pledges that are vain.
But ages, ages will you bear the curse
Of our sons’ distant offspring racked with pain.

Our forests’ dark depths shall we open wide
To you, the men of Europe’s comely race,
And unmoved shall we stand aside,
An ugly grin on our Asian face.

Advance, advance to Ural’s crest,
We offer you a battleground so neat
Where your machines of steel in serried ranks abreast
With the Mongolian savage horde will meet.

But we shall keep aloof from strife,
No longer be your shield from hostile arrow,
We shall just watch the mortal strife
With our slanting eyes so cold and narrow.

Unmoved shall we remain when Hunnish forces
The corpses’ pockets rake for plunder,
Set town afire, to altars tie their horses,
Burn our white brothers’ bodies torn asunder.

To the old world goes out our last appeal:
To work and peace invite our warming fires.
Come to our hearth, join our festive meal.
Called by the strings of our Barbarian lyres.

2/2