søndag den 2. august 2009


Jeg er jo ikke kristen, men derfor kan man da godt holde sin kultur hellig om søndagen. Her en dejlig Nocturne af Chopin, suppleret med et af William Blakes bedste digte, "The night".


by: William Blake (1757-1827)

      HE sun descending in the west,
      The evening star does shine;
      The birds are silent in their nest.
      And I must seek for mine.
      The moon, like a flower
      In heaven's high bower,
      With silent delight
      Sits and smiles on the night.

      Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
      Where flocks have took delight:
      Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
      The feet of angels bright;
      Unseen they pour blessing
      And joy without ceasing
      On each bud and blossom,
      On each sleeping bosom.

      They look in every thoughtless nest
      Where birds are cover'd warm;
      They visit caves of every beast,
      to keep them all from harm:
      If they see any weeping
      That should have been sleeping,
      They pour sleep on their head,
      And sit down by their bed.

      When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
      They pitying stand and weep,
      Seeking to drive their thirst away
      And keep them from the sheep.
      But, if they rush dreadful,
      The angels, most heedful,
      Receive each mild spirit,
      New worlds to inherit.

      And there the lion's ruddy eyes
      Shall flow with tears of gold:
      And pitying the tender cries,
      And walking round the fold:
      Saying, 'Wrath by His meekness,
      And, by His health, sickness,
      Are driven away
      From our immortal day.

      'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
      I can lie down and sleep,
      Or think on Him who bore thy name,
      Graze after thee, and weep.
      For, wash'd in life's river,
      My bright mane for ever
      Shall shine like the gold
      As I guard o'er the fold.'

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