I heard no trumpet sounding
Through winter's sombre tomb,
Nor noise of angels rolling
Grim headstones; in my room
I slept as deeply unconcerned
As Pilate, when there died,
After his base betrayal,
The One they crucified:
But spring's gay resurrection
Stirred all the country-side.
For when I woke at daybreak
And looked towards the moor,
Behold, a thousand snowdrops
Were crowding at my door...
" All in their gleaming raiment,
White as the crested wave,
And glorious like their master
New-risen from the grave."
TRANSLATED from the Welsh by A.G.PRYS-JONES.
wonderful mate,laters xx
ReplyDeleteglad you liked it,
ReplyDeletelaters xx
Speaking of 'gay resurrection' and 'Snowdrops', here's a bit of Derek Jarman, and what he had to say about the 'glorious' blooms:
ReplyDelete"White, is the dead mid-winter, pure and chaste, the snowdrop, Galanthus nivalis (Candlemas bells), decorated the churches on February the second, the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin... but don't bring those snowdrops into your house - they'll bring you bad luck, you might even drop dead: for the snowdrop is the flower of the dead, resembling a corpse in its shroud."
A rather different take on Jones's Wordsworthian lift...
And just where the fuck are them daffs?
C'mon Spring: get it together!
This comment was endorsed by the Shiraz grape:
Salute! roy
nice one, my daffs are raising their lovely heads as i write.xx
ReplyDelete