More snow today. I felt sorry for my car, washed her twice. Otherwise, a lazy reading day with some cigars, and some driving. Plenty of poetry, most clean and tight, yet heavy words, some scald like molten lead; some mad compositions. Here is two by A.E. Housman:
To an Athlete Dying Young and When I was one-and-twenty. Then try speaking these by Edwin Arlington Robinson: Leonora , The Unforgiven, and Richard Corey. If thats not enough, try Der Tod, das Ist by heinrich Heine. And then this by Endre Ady, Ver es Arany (Blood and Gold). Sorry, no translation from the Hungarian to be found. The first few lines, roughly put: "Its the same to my ears whether passion pants or gold clatters/ I assert and know that this is all, and else in vain/ blood and gold, blood and gold." One more from E.A. Robinson: Be still, my soul, be still. It should stop snowing tomorrow.