France Prešeren was a Slovene Romantic poet. He is considered the Slovene national poet. Although he was not a particularly prolific author, he inspired virtually all Slovene literature thereafter.
He was born 3 December 1800 (Saturday) in the Upper Carniolan village of Vrba, then part of the Habsburg Monarchy (today in Slovenia), to a relatively well-to-do peasant family. Already as a child, he showed considerable talent, so his parents decided to provide him with a good education.
At the age of eight, he was sent to elementary schools in Grosuplje and Ribnica, run by the local Roman Catholic clergy. In 1812, he moved to the Carniolan provincial ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
France Preseren Poems
A Farewell To My Youth
O happier half of days decreed to me, My early years, so soon you passed away: Few were the flowers that blossomed on that tree,
O'er Thee, Misfortune, I Have Ceased To ...
O'er thee, Misfortune, I have ceased to wail, I'll utter no reproaches any more. Thank God, I'm used to griefs thou hast in store
A Wreath Of Sonnets (6/14)
Unblest by soothing winds of warmer days, My songs remain, since from you, haughty maid, They never won the word that might be said -
A Wreath Of Sonnets (7/14)
Above them savage peaks the mountains raise, Like those which once were charmed by the refrain
Mid Wastes Of Africa A Wanderer Sped
Mid wastes of Africa a wanderer sped: He found no pathway; night was now afield. Through clouds no stealthy glimmer was revealed;
A Wreath Of Sonnets (4/14)
These tear-stained flowers of a poet's mind, Culled from my bosom, lay it wholly bare; My heart's a garden: Love is sowing there
1 Let my poem, like a shrine, contain - your name; In my heart shall ever proudly reign - your name;
O, Vrba, Happy Village, My Old Hme
O, Vrba, happy village, my old home - My father's cottage stands there to this day. The lure of learning beckoned me away.
The vintage, friends, is over, And here sweet wine makes, once again, Sad eyes and hearts recover, Puts fire in every vein,
A Wreath Of Sonnets (14/14)
Fresh flowers will spread fragrance far and near, Like roses when the winter's passed away, And spring displays its marvellous array,
The warring clouds have vanished from the skies; The war of men has ended with the night.
The Master Theme
A Slovene wreath your poet has entwined; A record of my pain and of your praise, Since from my heart's deep roots have sprung these lays,
A Wreath Of Sonnets (1/14)
A Slovene wreath your poet has entwined, Of fifteen sonnets is the chaplet bound, And in it thrice the Master Theme must sound:
A Wreath Of Sonnets (13/14)
Send but your rays their glory to renew And let me not look for dawn's light in vain In your dear face, to hold back night's domain
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A Farewell To My Youth
O happier half of days decreed to me,
My early years, so soon you passed away:
Few were the flowers that blossomed on that tree,
And they, scarce budded, fell into decay.
Few were the rays of hope that I could see,
And storms would often rage in wild array;
Still, for my youth, dark though thy dawn may be,
My heart will ever cry, God be with thee!
Too soon the fruits of knowledge did I eat!
Where dripped their poison, faded all delight:
I saw how honesty and truth could meet
Among the human kind with scorn and spite.
I sought true love - an ...