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, […]