Schimbam recent prin email cu D. impresii despre John Donne şi George Herbert, doi dintre poeţii „metafizici” englezi. Primisem nişte versuri din Donne, despre moarte, şi m-am simţit dator să răspund cu o poezie întreagă, pe care aş vrea să o împărtăşesc şi cu cititorii blogului. Nu ştiu dacă se va încumeta cineva să facă o traducere (pentru anumiţi termeni ar trebui să mă consult şi eu cu oameni mai „pedepsiţi” în limba engleză decât mine).

Death

Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
The sad effect of sadder grones:
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.
For we consider’d thee as at some six
Or ten yeares hence,
After the losse of life and sense,
Flesh being turn’d to dust, and bones to sticks.
We lookt on this side of thee, shooting short;
Where we did finde
The shells of fledge souls left behinde,
Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort.
But since our Saviours death did put some bloud
Into thy face;
Thou art grown fair and full of grace,
Much in request, much sought for as a good.
For we do now behold thee gay and glad,
As at dooms-day;
When souls shall wear their new aray,
And all thy bones with beautie shall be clad.
Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust Half that we have
Unto an honest faithful grave;
Making our pillows either down, or dust.