Βιβλία σαν το «Η Ιλιάδα»

Τότε έτσι εκείνος κοίταξε σωπώντας το παιδί τουμε θλιβερό χαμόγελο· κι’ η όμορφη Αντρομάχηήρθε κλαμένη, τούπιασε σφιχτά το χέρι κι’ είπε« Καημένε, αχ το φιλότιμο θα σ’ αφανίσει. Πες μου,» τ’ αθώο αφτό δεν το πονάς, δε λυπάσαι εμένα» που μάβρη χήρα κι’ έρημη σε λίγο θα μ’ αφήκεις ;» Τι γρήγορα όλοι οι Δαναοί θα τρέξουν να σε σφάξουν.» Μα αν είναι να σε στερηθώ, καλύτερα για μένα» να με σκεπάσει η μάβρη Γης! Γιατί άλλο πια αντιστύλι» δε θα μου μείνει, μόν καημοί, τα μάτια σα σφαλίσεις.» Μηγάρ πατέρα εγώ ’χω πια ή τη γλυκιά μου μάννα ;

My lot be still to leadThe life of innocence and flyIrreverence in word or deed,To follow still those laws ordained on highWhose birthplace is the bright ethereal sky.No mortal birth they own,Olympus their progenitor alone:Ne’er shall they slumber in oblivion cold,The god in them is strong and grows not old.

He often permitteth the mood-thought of man of The illustrious lineage to lean to possessions, 80 Allows him earthly delights at his manor, A high-burg of heroes to hold in his keeping, Maketh portions of earth-folk hear him, And a wide-reaching kingdom so that, wisdom failing him, He himself is unable to reckon its boundaries; 85 He liveth in luxury, little debars him, Nor sickness nor age, no treachery-sorrow Becloudeth his spirit, conflict nowhere, No sword-hate, appeareth, but all of the world doth Wend as he wisheth; the worse he knoweth not, 90 Till arrant arrogance inward pervading, Waxeth and springeth, when the warder is sleeping, The guard of the soul: with sorrows encompassed, Too sound is his slumber, the slayer is near him, Who with bow and arrow aimeth in malice.

«Ὅταν ἡ μαύρ᾿ ἡ μάνα μου, ἐμπρὸς σὲ μίαν εἰκόνα,Πλάστη μου, μ᾿ ἐγονάτιζε μὲ σταυρωτὰ τὰ χέριακαὶ μώλεγε νὰ δεηθῶ γιὰ κειοὺς ποὺ τὸ χειμῶνασὰ λύκοι ἐτρέχαν στὰ βουνά, μὲ χιόνια, μ᾿ ἀγριοκαίριαγιὰ νὰ μὴ ζοῦνε στὸ ζυγό, ἔνοιωθα τὴ φωνή μου,νὰ ξεψυχάει στὰ χείλη μου. ἐσπάραζε ἡ καρδιά μου,μοῦ ἐτρέμανε τὰ γόνατα, σὰν νἄθελε ἡ ψυχή μουνὰ φύγῃ μὲ τὴ δέηση ἀπὸ τὰ σωθικά μου.Ὕστερα μὤλεγε κρυφὰ νὰ σοῦ ζητῶ τὴ χάρηνὰ μ᾿ ἀξιώσῃς μία φορὰ ἕνα σπαθὶ νὰ ζώσωκαὶ νὰ μὴν ἔρθῃ ὁ θάνατος νὰ μ᾿ εὕρῃ, νὰ μὲ πάρῃπρὶν πολεμήσω ἐλεύθερος, γιὰ σὲ πρὶν τὸ ματώσω.Πατέρα παντοδύναμε! Ἄκουσες τὴν εὐχή μου.

She did not know and would not have believed it, but beneath the layer of slime that covered her soul and seemed to her impenetrable, delicate young shoots of grass were already sprouting, which taking root would so cover with their living verdure the grief that weighed her down that it would soon no longer be seen or noticed. The wound had begun to heal from within.

Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,Think true love acted simple modesty.Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;For thou wilt lie upon the wings of nightWhiter than new snow on a raven’s back.Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night,Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,Take him and cut him out in little stars,And he will make the face of heaven so fineThat all the world will be in love with nightAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.