Dead Poets and Dark Caves

My Spaniards hang with eachother, painter Dali and Lorca had a unconventional realationship. Like the stick that holds up the young tree, they held eachother up. Federico García Lorca is possibly the most important Spanish poet and dramatist of his time. Now read this with the famous spaniard lisp.*Grin*



Arbolé, Arbolé . . .
Federico García Lorca

Arbolé, arbolé,
seco y verdí.

La niña del bello rostro
está cogiendo aceituna.
El viento, galán de torres,
la prende por la cintura.
Pasaron cuatro jinetes
sobre jacas andaluzas,
con trajes de azul y verde,
con largas capas oscuras.
"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Pasaron tres torerillos
delgaditos de cintura,
con trajes color naranja
y espadas de plata antigua.
"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.
Cuando la tarde se puso
morada, con lux difusa,
pasó un joven que llevaba
rosas y mirtos de luna.
"Vente a Granada, muchacha."
Y la niña no lo escucha.
La niña del bello rostro
sigue cogiendo aceituna,
con el brazo gris del viento
ceñido por la cintura.
Arbolé, arbolé.
Seco y verdé.

Y ahora en inglés para los que no leen español, disfruta de.

Translated by William Logan

Tree, tree
dry and green.

The girl with the pretty face
is out picking olives.
The wind, playboy of towers,
grabs her around the waist.
Four riders passed by
on Andalusian ponies,
with blue and green jackets
and big, dark capes.
"Come to Cordoba, muchacha."
The girl won't listen to them.
Three young bullfighters passed,
slender in the waist,
with jackets the color of oranges
and swords of ancient silver.
"Come to Sevilla, muchacha."
The girl won't listen to them.
When the afternoon had turned
dark brown, with scattered light,
a young man passed by, wearing
roses and myrtle of the moon.
"Come to Granada, inuchacha."
And the girl won't listen to him.
The girl with the pretty face
keeps on picking olives
with the grey arm of the wind
wrapped around her waist.
Tree, tree
dry and green.





"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare

A Dead Rose

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

O Rose! who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;

But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,---

Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee

Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away

An odour up the lane to last all day,---

If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,

And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,---

If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grow incarnadined, because

It lay upon thee where the crimson was,---

If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,

Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,---

If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee,

And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,

And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,---

If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognise thee,

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,

Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,---

Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee

More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold

As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!---

Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee!

"A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool."- William Shakespeare