1. Anthology
By: Zahredin Treki

2. Ode To Spring by Frederick Seidel
I can only find words for. And sometimes I can’t. Here are these flowers that stand for. I stand here on the sidewalk. I can’t stand it, but yes of course I understand it. Everything has to have meaning. Things have to stand for something. I can’t take the time. Even skin-deep is too deep. I say to the flower stand man: Beautiful flowers at your flower stand, man. I’ll take a dozen of the lilies. I’m standing as it were on my knees Before a little man up on a raised Runway altar where his flowers are arrayed Along the outside of the shop. I take my flames and pay inside. I go off and have sexual intercourse. The woman is the woman I love. The room displays thirteen lilies. I stand on the surface.
Ode To Spring by Frederick Seidel

3. Amoretti Part 1 by Edmund Spenser
Happy ye leaves when as those lily hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,
Shall handle you and hold in love's soft bands,
Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.
And happy lines, on which with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look
And read the sorrows of my dying sprite,
Written with tears in heart's close-bleeding book.
And happy rhymes bath'd in the sacred brook,
Of Helicon whence she derived is,
When ye behold that Angel's blessed look,
My soul's long-lacked food, my heaven's bliss.
Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none. II
Amoretti Part 1 by Edmund Spenser

4. Visions by Francesco Petrarch
Being one day at my window all alone, So many strange things happened me to see, As much as it grieveth me to think thereon. At my right hand a hynde appeared to me, So faire as mote the greatest god delight; Two eager dogs did her pursue in chase. Of which the one was black, the other white: With deadly force so in their cruel race They pinched the haunches of that gentle beast, That at the last, and in short time, I spide, Under a rock, where she alas, opprest, Fell to the ground, and there untimely died. Cruel death vanquishing so noble beauty Oft makes me wayle so hard a desire.
Visions by Francesco Petrarch

5. From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee
Sonnet 1 by Shakespeare

6. Everything I touch with tenderness, alas, pricks like a bramble.
Touch –Koboyashi Issa

7. One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

8. The End
ENJOY!

9. Sources / Biliography