(no subject)
Nov. 11th, 2004 03:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleThis is already on the sidebar of my journal but it's lovely and only thirty words long and I'm in a poetry mood.
He loved three things:
White fowls, evensong,
And antique maps of America.
He hated the crying of children,
Raspberry jam at tea,
And female hysteria.
And I was his wife.
- Anna Ahkmatova
I've seen a translation of this where the last line is "and yet he married me!" which completely alters the tone of the poem. The translation above was the first I read, and it's my favourite.
And a poem![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marymac introduced me to in first year - much as I love my course, some days I feel like this.
When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
- Walt Whitman
He loved three things:
White fowls, evensong,
And antique maps of America.
He hated the crying of children,
Raspberry jam at tea,
And female hysteria.
And I was his wife.
- Anna Ahkmatova
I've seen a translation of this where the last line is "and yet he married me!" which completely alters the tone of the poem. The translation above was the first I read, and it's my favourite.
And a poem
marymac introduced me to in first year - much as I love my course, some days I feel like this.When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
- Walt Whitman
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no subject
on 2004-11-11 08:14 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-11-11 08:15 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-11-11 08:19 am (UTC)Hey, I've written 350 words! Go me!