Høst

Så er den da altså endelig her, høsten. Sommeren, med sine varme, tørre gleder er passert (et ganske annet sted) og den beste av årstider er i ferd med å trykke oss inn i sin avkjølende favn. (Våtere kan den neppe bli.) Da er tiden inne for litt poesi, nærmere bestemt en leksjon i de flyktige gleders forbannelse, ved en mann som burde vite hva han snakket om, John Keats.

In Drear-nighted December
In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
Was never said in rhyme.