laugardagur, október 01, 2005
Jeminn
John Keats var bara smá stubbur, "barely over five feet in height" - það eru (held ég) rétt um 160 cm, ha! Þetta kríli þótti voða hávaðasamur skólastrákur og öðlaðist orðspor sem mikill íþróttamaður og afreksslagsmálahundur... Svo fór hann bara heim til sín og skrifaði
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft insense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets covere'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summers eves.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft insense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets covere'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summers eves.
# posted by Skotta @ 2:16 e.h. 
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