John Keats : Ode To Psyche – On the Grasshopper and Cricket ed altro di Keats

Pubblicato il 30 giugno 2018 da admin

Ode to Psyche

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
         By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
         Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
         The winged Psyche with awaken’d eyes?
I wander’d in a forest thoughtlessly,
         And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
         In deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring roof
         Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
                A brooklet, scarce espied:
Mid hush’d, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
         Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
         Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
         Their lips touch’d not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
         At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
                The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
                His Psyche true!
O latest born and loveliest vision far
         Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe’s sapphire-region’d star,
         Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
                Nor altar heap’d with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
                Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
         From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
         Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
         Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
         Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir’d
         From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
         Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir’d.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
                Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
         From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
         Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
         In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
         Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d trees
         Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
         The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull’d to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
   With the wreath’d trellis of a working brain,
         With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,
         Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
         That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
         To let the warm Love in!
 https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44480/ode-to-psyche

On the Grasshopper and Cricket

The Poetry of earth is never dead:
  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
  And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
  In summer luxury,—he has never done
  With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
  On a lone winter evening, when the frost
    Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53210/on-the-grasshopper-and-cricket

L GRILLO DEI CAMPI E IL GRILLO DEL FOCOLARE John Keats

La poesia della terra mai non muore.
Quando tutti gli uccelli sono stanchi
sotto il sole bruciante e si nascondono
nell’intrico degli alberi, una voce
corre di siepe in siepe intorno al prato
dalla falce tagliato. E’ questo il grillo
dei campi, il capintesta della festa
dell’estate, che mai smette il suo canto
ma tutto il tempo stride, e quando è stanco
cerca riposo sotto un filo d’erba.
La poesia della terra mai non muore.
D’inverno, in una sera solitaria,
quando il silenzio è opera del gelo,
ecco sprizzare dalla stufa il canto
del grillo del focolare, che cresce
più cresce il caldo. E a chi vaga smarrito
tra sonno e veglia par di udire il grillo
dei campi all’opra tra l’erba dei colli.

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