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