Jose Maria de Heredia
a Cuban-born French poet. He was the fifteenth member elected for seat 4 of the Académie française during 1894.
Heredia was born at Fortuna Cafeyere, near Santiago de Cuba of Spanish Criollo and French ancestry. At the age of eight he went from the West Indies to France, returning then to Havana at age seventeen, and finally making France his home not long afterwards. He received his classical education with the priests of Saint Vincent at Senlis, and after his visit to Havana he studied at the Ecole des Chartes at Paris. During the later 1860s, with François Edouard Joachim Coppée, René François Armand Sully-Prudhomme, Paul Verlaine and others less ... more »
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Jose Maria de Heredia Poems
Evening is here. Some pigeons cross the sky. Nothing so well an amorous fever chains As when with pipe to lip its soothing strains
Death of the Eagle
Although beyond the eternal snows, aspires The vast-winged eagle still to loftier air, That nearer to the sun in blue more clear
The winter has deflowered garden and heath; Nought lives; and on the rock's unchanging gray, Where the Atlantic's endless billows play,
Antony and Cleopatra
On Egypt sleeping under sky of brass The twain gazed wistfully from terrace high, And watched the Flood, through Delta rolling high,
As when at Delphi, Thymus close behind, He flew through stadium to applause's roar, So on this plinth now Ladas runs one more,
Life of the Dead
When over us the cross its shadow throws, Our frames enshrouded in the mould of night, Thy body shall reflower in lily white,
To the Divine Mountains
Blue glaciers, peaks of marble, granite, slate, Moraines whence winds from Begle to Nethou The wheat and rye send blighting ruin through,
Juan Ponce de Leon, by the Devil led, With years weighed down and crammed with antique lore, Seeing age branch his stubby locks still more,
O'er their soft limbs has myrrh its fragrance shed; And bathed in warmth beneath December's skies
This window has seen dames and lords of might, Sparkling with gold, with azure, flame and nacre, Bow down, before the altar of their Maker,
On a Broken Marble
Pious the moss to see no more the ground; For from this wasted wood forever gone
In what cold seas, under what winters' reign, - Who can e'er know, O nacreous, fragile Shell! - Hast thou through current, wave and tidal swell,
All wretched, shocking, nude, with vilest fare, Such slave am I - my body bears the signs - Born free at foot of gulf whose beauteous lines
On the Book of Loves of Pierre de Ronsar...
In Bourgueil Gardens more than one of yore Engraved loved names on bark with heavy stroke, And many a heart 'neath Louvre's gold ceilings shook,
Comments about Jose Maria de Heredia
(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)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Evening is here. Some pigeons cross the sky.
Nothing so well an amorous fever chains
As when with pipe to lip its soothing strains
Blend with the rush-grown stream's fresh melody.
In shade of plane-tree where at ease we lie
The grass is soft. Let, friend, that goat which feigns
Indifference to the trembling kid she weans,
Climb up the rock and browse the herbage nigh.
With seven unequal stems of hemlock made,
Well joined with wax, my flute, or sharply played
Or grave, will weep, or moan, or joyous sing.
Come. Try Silenus' art that knows no ...