William Wordsworth
(Eg har googla "insomnia+poem" i håp å i alle fall finne noko spennande å lese på internettet sidan eg ikkje søv)
Eg veit ikkje når dette diktet blei skrive, men Wordsworth døydde jo i 1850. Dette diktet reiser eit spørsmål hos meg: Kor lenge har folk talt sauar, når dei ikkje får sove? Og kor kjem denne saueteljinga frå?
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees,
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear tonight away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
3 comments:
To Sleep
Come balmy Sleep! tired Nature's soft resort!
On these sad temples all thy poppies shed;
And bid gay dreams from Morpheus' airy court,
Float in light vision round my aching head!
Secure of all thy blessings, partial Power!
On his hard bed the peasant throws him down;
And the poor sea boy, in the rudest hour,
Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown.
Clasped in her faithful shepherd's guardian arms,
Well may the village girl sweet slumbers prove,
And they, O gentle Sleep! still taste thy charms,
Who wake to labor, liberty and love.
But still thy opiate aid dost thou deny
To calm the anxious breast; to close the streaming eye.
Diktet er av Charlotte Smith...
Dette var nytt for meg. Takk.
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