miércoles, 15 de julio de 2015

Paseando entre la hierba alta

I love at eventide to walk alone
Down narrow lanes o´erhung with dewy thorn
Where, from the long grass underneath, the snail
Jet black creeps out and sprouts his timid horn.

John Clare

2 comentarios:

  1. Estimado José Luis: permíteme, por favor, insertar aquí este pequeño poemilla a modo de comentario, al que he estado dando vueltas estos días de "tranquilidad", basado en lo que me sugirió tu entrada, y leer a y sobre "our mutual friend" John Clare.


    It is from a crowded coastal desert that this I declare
    Do not behold it for its sight you would so much deplore
    So bleak that for the places you sang it makes me long
    At least by reading you some things seems less wrong

    Scenes pictured by you bring yearning and nostalgy
    When in a sea of concrete, plastic and technology
    Many years already passed, yours was another world
    This brave new one keeps turning my head in a swirl

    You stood captivated by fields and country life glares
    They say you lost your mind out of too many cares
    Your soul and work could escape your inherited poverty
    Now among the renowned and popular is your poetry

    Green poems burn already in the Temple of Fame
    In stone and high clouds we have etched your name
    In the breeze I can hear words which you are
    Their sounds seem swift hare and gently flare

    1. Me alegro que la entrada de Mr. John Clare te haya sugerido este poema: está muy bien.