Hvar er skottið?

From now on (or until I change my mind), Tuesdays shall be English-days on my blog site, as obvioulsy am a student of this delightful tongue so it would be appropriate to hone my skills at least once a week - am thus following the good example of my fellow student Kristín kría, and here's to her, and that, and man, who's "a man for a' that"!

By the way, this morning I took my first exam at the university, 50%,
thank you very much, and I believe I did quite fine.

Ahem, concerning last posting, do not despair, have not gone mad, rather was it... well...
most clearly an "association of ideas", like my good friend John Locke calls it... or... all right, I lost it a little bit, but only a tiny, little, tad bit...

You try and read for an exam on romantic poetry AND working your week-end shift at the same time, without getting a little interrupted!

So it has been:
Friday: class, finish darn essay (victory, have at thee, Guðmundur vondi!), study, sleep

Saturday: study, work, study, sleep

Sunday: same

Monday: class, study, sleep

And I kid you not, there has been nothing, NOTHING, in between, except for short but undenyably vital intercourses, solely devoted to nourishing oneself.

The worst part is that I BLOODY LIKED IT!
I´m doomed. I admit,

my name is Helga
and I'm a literaholic.

John Keats is my best pal, my love, and he's sooooooo dead, believe me.
How could one not adore a person who can draw a picture of words, which calls upon all the senses to delight in the beauty of such a fusion of sexual and spiritual elements:

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
(The Eve of St. Agnes)

And, there you have it, if anyone wants to make an impression, surprise me with a haunting poem, or lines of subtle, penetrating contrasts, like Shelley did:

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not -
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught -
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
(To a Sky-Lark)

Hell, this one almost swirled me into a shameless affair - my darling John, almost I said, and moreover I promise, never again shall temptation throw dust in my eyes, for they are for you only, here, take for that my most humble words and "awkward bow".

Hark, I have reconsidered, and am pressed to make another, more suitable and truthful declaration as

my name is Helga
and I'm a melancholic.