|
0
registrerede
597
gæster og
997
søgemaskiner online. |
|
Key:
Admin,
Global Mod,
Mod
|
|
|
Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Poetisk fryd..
|
Et skvulp af Wordsworth’ hjerteblod…
Travelling
This is the spot: - how mildly does the sun
Shine in between the fading leaves! the air
In the habitual silence of this wood
Is more silent; and this bed of health –
Where shall we find so sweet a resting-place?
Come, let me see thee sink into a dream
Of quiet thoughts, protracted till thine eye
Be calm as water when the winds are gone
And no one can tell whither. My sweet friend,
We two have had such happy hours together
That my heart melts in me to think of it.
- W. Wordsworth.
*
Song
A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.
There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And the moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.
- Seamus Heaney, Field Work.
mvh
Simon
|
|
|
|
