miðvikudagur, mars 09, 2005

Funeral blues
by W. H. Auden
Vintage

I
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.


He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.


The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


Mér fannst þetta ljóð alveg rosalega flott í Four Weddings and a Funeral. Sniðugt þetta net, maður finnur allt á því.

2 ummæli:

  1. ekkert smá flott!

    Auden er uppáhalds skáldið mitt á ensku.

    Now, through night's caressing grip
    Earth and all her oceans slip.
    Capes of China slide away
    From her fingers into day
    And the Americas incline
    Coasts towards her shadowline.

    Now the ragged vagrants creep
    Into crooked holes to sleep
    Just and unjust, worst and best,
    Change their places as they rest:
    Awkward lovers lie in fields
    Where disdainful beauty yields:

    While the splendid and the proud
    Naked stand before the crowd
    And the losing gambler gains
    And the beggar entertains:
    May sleep's healing power extend
    Through these hours to our friend,

    Unpursued by hostile force,
    Traction engine, bull or horse
    Or revolting succubus;
    Calmly till the morning break
    Let him lie,
    then gently wake...


    magnað?

    SvaraEyða
  2. Já, hann er þrusumagnaður. Ég þekki lítið til hans þótt skömm sé frá að segja. En það mun breytast núna!

    SvaraEyða