Poems by George Coșbuc

6 poems by George Coșbuc

George Coșbuc - romanian poet

George Coșbuc
Was born on 20 sep 1866.
Died on 09 may 1918, at 51 years old.
Origin country: România

The insolvent debtor

Home walked she from the mill
Her sack was down and she
Could not lift it again.
"May I help? " "What? " "For pay! "
And in the narrow lane
Good girls shouldn't wave away
Such offers and say "nay".
That she agreed was plain.


George CoșbucPoems by George Coșbuc about kiss, help, judges, question, things, end, good, good luck, home

Decebal to his people

This life is a lost boon if you
Don't live it as you wanted to!
Much would a warlike, ruthless foe
Enslave us all! Our birth, we know,
Was woe enough; would you get through
Another dreadful woe?

Death, even for a godlike scion,

George CoșbucPoems by George Coșbuc about fight, fear, man, bad luck, enemies, law, oath, bad, fasting, people

Spring harbingers

From sunny countries and skies blue
From which last automn-tide you flew,
Return, dear birds, where you belong,
Most welcome, you!
The woods, bereft of leaf and song,
Weep for they have missed you too long.

In the eternal dome of...

George CoșbucPoems by George Coșbuc about home, joy, country, pleasure, flowers, nature, salary, poetry, mind, thinking

The shadow

Your burnt offspring's smoke will wind
Peacefully towards the skies
Only if you bear in mind
That when you go to the sun,
Your dark shadow is behind.

Silent slave whom the grim lord
Summons by a silent gesture,
He takes heed,...

George CoșbucPoems by George Coșbuc about shadow, smoke, sun, nothing, flight, mind, dark, light, eyes, fairy tales

The poet

A soul in the soul of my people am I
And sing of its sorrows and joys,
For mine are your wounds and I cry
Whenever you do, drinking dry
That chalice of poison that's meant for Fate's toys.
Whatever your pathway, together we'll ail,...

George CoșbucPoems by George Coșbuc about people, heart, destiny, soul, drinking, things, man, hate, earth, love

Three, mighty God, all three!

He had three sons and they, all three,
When called, for the encampment left;
So the poor father was bereft
Of rest and peace, for war, thought he.
Is hard - one has no time to feel
That one has ceased to be.

And many months went in...

George CoșbucPoems by George Coșbuc about past, man, war, fear, human imperfections, thinking, god, bankers, obstacles, day