Una chiusa fantastica che domani mattina cercherò nonostante la pioggia!
Jul
Dolce e lieve il cadere di questi versi,
come fiocchi di neve
si posano sulla mia mente calda,
rinfrescandola...
Graditissima
A presto alinya
Y
Brava davvero...
cercare la bellezza in ogni momento che una vita folle non sa più mostrare.
Mi auguro che le sorridano molti raggi di sole, invece!
grazie
alinya
La bellezza cerca noi per rendere più soave la vita, dunque la accogliamo con gioia...grazie Airon
alinya
brava hai regalato immagini meravigliose, non d'Irlanda ma tue sicuro
certo non d'Irlanda, ma di quello che riusciamo a vedere con gli occhi della nostra anima...:))
grazie
alinya
Con la fantasia si può fare tutto, anche scambiare
normali case di contadini ai margini di un'autostrada per brughiere d'Irlanda.
La fantasia è la nostra ancora di salvezza per
renderci la vita più bella da vivere.
Gradita.
Ciao
helan
Grazie Helan, con la sua sensibilità certo sa cogliere gli aspetti belli del quotidiano...
alinya
Ha la bellezza della semplicità e della meraviglia.
Saluti
Nightingale
Ci sono usignoli nella brughiera? Qui da noi ci sono e hanno un canto meraviglioso...:)
grazie!
alinya
Oh certo che ci sono!!!! Amano la brughiera gli usignoli!Ti mando la poesia di Keats,spero ti piaccia(se non conosci l'inglese ci sono buone traduzioni cercando su internet). Saluti
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE (John Keats)
MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South! 15
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 20
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, 25
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night, 35
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 45
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod. 60
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 75
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep? 80
Conosco la poesia, l'inglese un po' meno....
graditissima, thanks a lot!
alinya
la ringrazio del commento, Moreno: sì, con la fantasia si vola...
alinya
