Red, Red Rose

 A Red, Red Rose

BY ROBERT BURNS

O my Luve is like a red, red rose 

   That’s newly sprung in June; 

O my Luve is like the melody 

   That’s sweetly played in tune. 

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

   So deep in luve am I; 

And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

   Till a’ the seas gang dry. 

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, 

   And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; 

I will love thee still, my dear, 

   While the sands o’ life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve! 

   And fare thee weel awhile! 

And I will come again, my luve, 

   Though it were ten thousand mile.

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“A Red, Red Rose” is a poem composed by Scotland's national poet, Robert Burns. It was first published in 1794. Burns’s poem was inspired by a simple Scottish song. The poem has the form of a ballad and is meant to be sung aloud. It describes the speaker’s deep love for his beloved  and promises that this love will last longer than human life, and it will remain fresh and constant forever.

The speaker describes his beloved in the following way:

• She is as beautiful, vivid, and fresh as a flower that has just bloomed. 

• She is as sweet as a beautiful song played by a skilled musician.

• She is a bonny lass.

Then, the speaker expresses how intensely he loves her. For that, he uses the following expressions:

• He is deeply in love with her.

• He will love her till the seas become dry.

• He will love her till the rocks melt by sun.

Finally, the speaker concludes by saying goodbye to the beloved. The speaker wishes her well during their temporary separation. The speaker reaffirms his or her faithful love by promising to return even if the journey covers a very long distance and takes a very long time.

The rose is a traditional symbol of romantic love, especially when its color is red. Here, the rose symbolizes the love between the speaker and the beloved. As a flower, however, roses also symbolize transience and impermanence. 

In this poem, the speaker uses the rose's beauty as an image of the beloved and uses the rose's rapid decay as a contrast to his or her eternal feelings for the beloved. Although the beloved is as beautiful as a rose, the speaker will love the beloved even as she ages, and their love will ultimately last far longer than the short lifespan of a rose.

The poem has the form of a ballad. It has four stanzas of four lines each with a rhyme scheme in each stanza of ABCB.

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"My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" ही सुप्रसिद्ध स्कॉटिश कवी रॉबर्ट बर्न्स यांची कविता आहे. ही कविता प्रेम, त्यातील गोडवा आणि अढळता यांचे सुंदर वर्णन करते.कवी आपल्या प्रिय व्यक्तीच्या सौंदर्याची तुलना टवटवीत लाल गुलाबाच्या फुलाशी करतो. तिचे सौंदर्य नवीन उमललेल्या गुलाबासारखे आहे आणि तिच्यावरील प्रेम संगीताच्या गोड सूरांसारखे आहे.

कवी म्हणतो की तो आपल्या प्रेयसीवर खूप खोल प्रेम करतो आणि ते प्रेम कधीच संपणार नाही. जरी वेळ आणि अंतर त्यांना दूर नेले, तरी त्याचे प्रेम सतत तिच्यासोबत राहील. तो तिला वचन देतो की तो तिला पुन्हा भेटेल, अगदी समुद्र कोरडे पडले तरी, दगड वितळले तरी किंवा पृथ्वी नष्ट झाली तरीही त्याचे प्रेम कायम राहील.

ही कविता शाश्वत प्रेमाची आणि त्याच्या गोडव्याची सुंदर अभिव्यक्ती आहे. कवी आपल्या प्रिय व्यक्तीसोबत नेहमी राहण्याची इच्छा व्यक्त करतो आणि प्रेम कधीही कमी होणार नाही, हे तो ठामपणे सांगतो.

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My Mistress' Eyes_Poem

 Sonnet 130: My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

By William Shakespeare

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.

   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

   As any she belied with false compare.

My Last Duchess_Poem

 My Last Duchess

BY ROBERT BROWNING

00:56

-03:08

FERRARA

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace—all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech—which I have not—to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—

E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!