domingo, mayo 14, 2006

Tarde retro

She dwells with Beauty— Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil´d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.


"Ode on Melancholy", by John Keats (1819)


Al-Div@ en casa.

Foto by Pablo Altclas

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