Wednesday, June 08, 2005


Unas líneas de Byron que combinaron bien con mi humor durante el fin de semana pasada – las saqué del poema For Inez, que se encuentra dentro del primer canto de Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage:

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore,
That will not look beyond the tomb,
But cannot hope for rest before.

What exile from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where’er I be,
The blight of life - the demon Thought.

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake:
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne’er, at least like me, awake!

Y mas adelante en el segundo canto, estas palabras que captan casi perfectamente la amargura de dejar atrás vistas extraordinarias:

That he who there at such an hour hath been,
Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot;
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene,
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot,
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot.

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