John Keats

I. St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem’d […]

In Lovely Blue // Friedrich Hölderlin

Trans. Richard Sieburth In lovely blue the steeple blossoms With its metal roof. Around which Drift swallow cries, around which Lies most loving blue. The sun, High overhead, tints the roof tin, But up in the wind, silent, The weathercock crows. When someone Takes the stairs down from the belfry, It is a still life, […]

William Gass on Charles Dickens

Missing his gifts Between Shakespeare and Joyce, there is no one but Dickens who has an equal command of the English language. He can be a misleading guide, because if you pay attention to what is usually said about Dickens, you will miss his gifts altogether. A Temple of Texts, p. 275 On Dickensian “realism” […]