por The poems of literary classicism they belong to a style of writing that consciously emulates the forms and themes of classical antiquity.
Literary classicism was a very popular movement from the mid-1700s to around 1800. It consisted of the search for the ideal, both in form and content.
poems of literary classicism
This selection of poems of literary classicism contains poems by Spanish writers.
However, with respect to poems of literary classicism in other latitudes, other authors stood out, such as Dante (Italian author, author of the epic poem Divine Comedy), Alexander Pope (English author, with the stolen curlamong others), Robinson Jeffers (20th century American author, with Cawdor and other poems), among others.
the dove (by José Iglesias de la Casa)
A white dove
Snow,
It has stung me in the soul;
it hurts a lot.
sweet dove,
how do you pretend
hurt the soul
who loves you?
your beautiful beak
gave pleasures,
but in my chest
stung like a serpent
Well tell me, ungrateful
why do you pretend
turn evil
giving you goods?
Ay!, no one trusts
of treacherous birds;
that to whom they praise,
much more hurt.
A white dove
Snow,
It has stung me in the soul;
it hurts a lot.
Giving up love and lyrical poetry on the occasion of the death of Philis (by Jose Gallows)
As long as my sweet garment lived,
Love, sonorous verses you inspired me;
I obeyed the law that you dictated to me,
and his strength gave me poetry.
But alas!, that since that fateful day
that deprived me of the good that you admired,
to the point without empire in me you found yourself,
and I found my Thalia lacking in ardor.
Well, the harsh Grim Reaper does not erase his law,
whom the same Jove does not resist,
I forget the Pindo and leave the beauty.
And you also give up your ambition,
and next to Philis they have a burial
your useless arrow and my sad lyre.
Ode XXXIV (of Juan Melendez Valdes)
with that same fire
that your little eyes look,
you give me death
and your dove life.
You, loving, fill it
with them for joy,
and the raw Love for them
A thousand arrows throw me.
her in every look
go, Fili, a caress;
I, the rigors alone
of your haughty dodge.
Thus I exclaim a thousand times:
«Who was a dove!
trade before your eyes
my sorrows into delights.»
The bee and the cuckoo (fable by Tomás de Iriarte)
Leaving the apiary,
The bee said to the cuckoo:
Shut up, because it won’t let me
your ungrateful voice will work.
There is no bird so annoying
in singing like you:
cuckoo, cuckoo and more cuckoo,
and always the same thing!
Does my singing tire you anyway?
(the cuckoo replied:)
Well, by faith, I can’t find
variety in your honeycomb;
and then that in its own way
you make one hundred,
if I invent nothing new,
everything in you is very old.
To this the bee replies:
In utility work
lack of variety
It is not what hurts the most
but in destined work
just to taste and fun,
if the invention is not varied,
everything else is nothing.
To some inquisitive friends (by Felix Maria Samaniego)
tenths
To give me what to understand,
you offer my choice
three beautiful things that are
dream, money or woman.
So listen to my opinion
in this loose example:
his mother to a determined child
soup or egg offered him,
and the boy answered her:
Mother, I… all mixed up.
But if by chance you insist
in which of the three you choose,
the difficulty is loose,
to see it at the moment you go.
I hope you don’t have me
for rude, yes to say
I prepare myself, to comply,
the truth without pretenses;
what do the commandments say
the eighth, do not lie.
It won’t be my choice
the woman… because, I know
that she is so… that…
men… but, whoops!
I have her veneration;
and for me they should not know
that for the better to lose
the devil to Job his virtue,
he took children and health
and the wife left him.
I dream, I just have to want
the precise one to my person,
because sometimes he leaves her
when you need it most.
Thing is that I can’t see
anyway a complaint
for a flea he leaves me;
he leaves and why I don’t know;
and it annoys me so much, that
I have it between eyebrows.
Oh money without a second,
spring of such a wonder
what do you set in motion
this world machine!
For you the deep sea furrows
on a stick the sailor;
for you the brave warrior
look for the greatest danger…
Well, despite that of Fuenmayor,
I prefer you, money.
If at your will I am made of wax (from Garcilaso de la Vega)
If at your will I am made of wax,
and for sun I only have your sight,
which does not inflame or conquer
with his look, it is meaningless;
Where does a thing come from, which, if it were
fewer times of me tried and seen,
as it seems that reason resists,
my sense itself did not believe?
And it is that I am far inflamed
of your burning sight and burning
so much so that in life I barely support myself;
But if I’m attacked up close
of your eyes, then I feel frozen
my blood curdles through my veins.
definition of love (by Francisco de Quevedo)
It’s burning ice, it’s icy fire,
It is a wound that hurts and is not felt
It is a good dream, a bad present,
it’s a very tiring short break.
It is an oversight that gives us care,
a coward with a brave name,
a solitary walk among the people,
a love only to be loved.
It is an imprisoned freedom,
that lasts until the last paroxysm;
disease that grows if it is cured.
This is the child Love, this is his abyss.
Look what friendship he will have with nothing
the one who is the opposite of himself in everything!
References
House Churches, J. (1820). Posthumous poems, Volume 1. Barcelona: Sierra y Mart.
DeLama, V. (1993). Anthology of Spanish and Latin American love poetry. Madrid: EDAF.