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Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Poetisk fryd..
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P.s. i solen:
The stars have not dealt me the worst they could do:
My pleasures are plenty, my troubles are two,
But oh, my two troubles they reave me of rest,
The brains in my head and the heart in my breast.
Oh, grant me the ease that is granted so free,
The birthright of multitudes, give it to me,
That relish their victuals and rest on their bed
With flint in the bosom and guts in the head.
*
Young is the blood that yonder
Succeeds to rick and fold,
Fresh are the form and favour
And new the minted mold:
The thoughts are old.
*
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
- A. E. Housman.
mvh
Simon
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