srijeda, 28.04.2021.
 The Moon's a Harsh Mistress See her how she flies Golden sails across the sky Close enough to touch But careful if you try Though she looks as warm as gold The moon's a harsh mistress The moon can be so cold Once the sun did shine Lord, it felt so fine The moon a phantom rose Through the mountains and the pines And then the darkness fell And the moon's a harsh mistress It's so hard to love her well I fell out of his eyes I fell out of his heart I fell down on my face I tripped and missed my star I fell and fell alone The moon's a harsh mistress The sky is made of stone The moon's a harsh mistress She's hard to call your own |
nedjelja, 18.04.2021.
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The Singing-Woman From The Wood's Edge
What should I be but a prophet and a liar, Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar? Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water, What should I be but the fiend's god-daughter? And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog, That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog? And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar, But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter? You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe, As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby, You will find such flame at the wave's weedy ebb As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother's web, But there comes to birth no common spawn From the love a a priest for a leprechaun, And you never have seen and you never will see Such things as the things that swaddled me! After all's said and after all's done, What should I be but a harlot and a nun? In through the bushes, on any foggy day, My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away, With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth, A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth. And there'd sit my Ma, with her knees beneath her chin, A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in, And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying! He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin, He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin, He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil, And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil! Oh, the things I haven't seen and the things I haven't known, What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown, And yanked both way by my mother and my father, With a "Which would you better?" and a " Which would you rather?" With him for a sire and her for a dam, What should I be but just what I am? Edna St. Vincent Millay Špijunaža susjedstva:   |
ponedjeljak, 12.04.2021.
dan prije snijega, u šumi
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THE PHILOSOPHER
AND what are you that, missing you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for your sake? And what are you that, missing you, As many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind And looking at the wall? I know a man that's a braver man And twenty men as kind, And what are you, that you should be The one man in my mind? Yet women's ways are witless ways, As any sage will tell,– And what am I, that I should love So wisely and so well? Edna st.Vincent Millay  |
utorak, 06.04.2021.
Snijeg
 DakleM, nije što je zasniježilo, neg je što je zahladilo, s tendencijom da zaledi. Sad moram, ne moram, ali želim, spasiti sve ono novoizniklo cvijeće , poglavito ruže i peonije, koje su si jako dale truda, nekako nečim zamotati, prije nego li temperatura padne pod nulu i lišće im se smrzne. Sniježni pokrov se trenutno otapa, pa ne može pružiti dosta zaštite... moram istražiti opcije, i to odmah. Dotle, fotke dana, s prozora jutros oko ...11?:   Pobliže:   Još bliže od pobližnog:       Nije to sad ne znam kakve kvalitete, ali čovjeka veseli. Uglavnom, niš, sanjke na sunce i idemo! |
