Het is weekend. Hier is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. When the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flown, And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow, Once again the fields we mow And gather in the aftermath. Not the sweet, new grass with flowers Is this harvesting of ours; Not the upland clover bloom; But the rowen mixed with weeds, Tangled tufts from marsh and meads, Where the poppy drops its seeds In the silence and the gloom. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Hier is Walt Whitman. Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying, Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride, Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain, So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow. Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow. Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley—stop for no expostulation, Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer, Mind not the old man beseeching the young man, Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties, Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses, So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Hier is die gast van die dure straat. Wanneer door 's werelds Licht de blindgeboren jongen Gezicht verkreeg, hij stond verwonderd en bedeesd. Beweging, verwe, stal van plant, van mens, van beest, Verbluften zijn gedacht' en liefelijk besprongen. Voorts sloten, torens, schier ten hemel hoog gesprongen, Het tijd-verdrijf van 's mensen onderwind-al-geest; Maar de zienlijke god, de schone zonne, meest. Zijn tonge zweeg, 't gemoed dat riep om duizend tongen. Even aleens, mijn licht, wanneer gij mij verschijnt En dat mijn ziel ontdekt uw ziels sieraden vijndt, Die 't oge mijns gemoeds, dat t' haarwaarts strekt, ontmoeten Zo zwelt mijn hart van vreugd en van verwondring diep En danke jegens u en jegens die u schiep, Totdat het berst en valt gebroken voor uw voeten. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Hier is William nog maar eens. O HURRY where by water among the trees The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh, When they have but looked upon their images -- Would none had ever loved but you and I! Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed Pale silver-proud queen-woman of the sky, When the sun looked out of his golden hood? -- O that none ever loved but you and I! O hurty to the ragged wood, for there I will drive all those lovers out and cry -- O my share of the world, O yellow hair! No one has ever loved but you and I. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is mater coïtus weekend! Hier is de Shakemeister. Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that in guess they measure by thy deeds; Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow. Prettig weekend. En be nice.

Het is weekend. Hier is Charles Baudelaire. Mon enfant, ma soeur, Songe à la douceur, D'aller là-bas, vivre ensemble! Aimer à loisir, Aimer et mourir, Au pays qui te ressemble! Les soleils mouillés, De ces ciels brouillés, Pour mon esprit ont les charmes, Si mystérieux, De tes traîtres yeux, Brillant à travers leurs larmes. Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté. Des meubles luisants, Polis par les ans, Décoreraient notre chambre; Les plus rares fleurs Mêlant leurs odeurs Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre, Les riches plafonds, Les miroirs profonds, La splendeur orientale, Tout y parlerait A l'âme en secret Sa douce langue natale. Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté. Vois sur ces canaux Dormir ces vaisseaux Dont l'humeur est vagabonde; C'est pour assouvir Ton moindre désir Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde. --Les soleils couchants Revêtent les champs Les canaux, la ville entière D'hyacinthe et d'or; Le monde s'endort Dans une chaude lumière Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté. Prettig weekend. En be nice.