Search results
Results from the WOW.Com Content Network
The ancient Greek nymphē in the first line can mean "nymph", but also "bride" or "young woman". [4] Thus Melinoë is described as such not in order to be designated as a divinity of lower status, but rather as a young woman of marriageable age; the same word is applied to Hecate and Tethys (a Titaness ) in their own Orphic hymns. [ 11 ]
The poem survives in a quotation by the fifth century AD author Stobaeus, who included it in a compilation of poems on manliness. [2] It was apparently included in this collection by mistake, as Stobaeus misinterpreted the word ρώμα in the first line as meaning "strength", rather than being the Greek name for the city of Rome.
The report, and an accompanying poem supposedly on the fountain describing the sleeping nymph, are now generally concluded to be a fifteenth-century forgery, but the motif proved influential among artists and landscape gardeners for several centuries after, with copies seen at neoclassical gardens such as the grotto at Stourhead.
Main page; Contents; Current events; Random article; About Wikipedia; Contact us
Sappho 94, sometimes known as Sappho's Confession, [1] is a fragment of a poem by the archaic Greek poet Sappho. The poem is written as a conversation between Sappho and a woman who is leaving her, perhaps in order to marry, and describes a series of memories of their time together. It survives on a sixth-century AD scrap of parchment.
Thomas Osbert Mordaunt was the son of Colonel Charles Mordaunt and Anne Howe. His grandfather, Brigadier-General Lewis Mordaunt, was the younger brother of Charles Mordaunt, 3rd Earl of Peterborough, sometime First Lord of the Treasury.
Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo (4 March 1901 or 1903 – 22 June 1937), born Joseph-Casimir Rabearivelo, was a Malagasy poet who is widely considered to be Africa's first modern poet and the greatest literary artist of Madagascar.
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick Muse doth give another place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again;