|
De Britse dichter en schrijver Hilaire Belloc werd geboren te St-Cloud op 27 juli 1870. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2009.
[Month of) July
The Kings come riding back from the Crusade,
The purple Kings and all their mounted men;
They fill the street with clamorous cavalcade;
The Kings have broken down the Saracen.
Singing a great song of the eastern wars,
In crimson ships across the sea they came,
With crimson sails and diamonded dark oars,
That made the Mediterranean flash with flame.
And reading how, in that far month, the ranks
Formed on the edge of the desert, armoured all,
I wish to God that I had been with them
When the first Norman leapt upon the wall,
And Godfrey led the foremost of the Franks,
And young Lord Raymond stormed Jerusalem.
[Month of] August
The soldier month, the bulwark of the year,
That never more shall hear such victories told;
He stands apparent with his heaven-high spear,
And helmeted of grand Etruscan gold.
Our harvest is the bounty he has won,
The loot his fiery temper takes by strength.
Oh! Paladin of the Imperial sun!
Oh! crown of all the seasons come at length!
This is sheer manhood; this is Charlemagne,
When he with his wide host came conquering home
From vengeance under Roncesvalles ta'en.
Or when his bramble beard flaked red with foam
Of bivouac wine-cups on the Lombard plain,
What time he swept to grasp the world at Rome.
Hilaire Belloc (27 juli 1870. 16 juli 1953)
De Russische schrijver Vladimir Korolenko werd geboren op 27 juli 1853 in Zjitomir (Volynië). Zie ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2008 en ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2009.
Uit: The Vagrant And Other Tales
" In the days of old Lang Syne! " The forest soughed. . . . The forest always soughed, now with a murmur calm and prolonged, like the echo of distant ringing, and again soft and gentle, like a song without words or a dim memory of the past. It always soughed, for it was an old and mighty forest, still untouched by the saw or the axe of woodman or trader. The tall, centennial pines, with their vast trunks, stood like threatening warriors, and their green tops formed a massive wall. Everything below was still; the air was filled with an odor of resin. Ferns of vivid hues pushed their way through the carpet of pine-needles with which the ground was strewn, expanding luxuriantly and resting thereon, like a soft fringe, without stirring a leaf. In the damp corners the greengrass shot up its tall and slender stems, and the white clover, heavy with bloom, drooped its languid head; while over all soughed the forest, with long-drawn, indistinguishable sighs. Now the sighs were growing deeper and louder; and as I rode along the forest path, although I could not see the sky, I judged by the moaning of the trees that heavy clouds were slowly rising above it. It was late in. the afternoon. Here and there a sunbeam, made its way, but in the dense woods the twilight was spreading rapidly. Evidently a storm was brewing. All plans for hunting must be given up for to-day. The storm might overtake me before I could find shelter for the night. My horse snorted and pricked up his ears, when, striking his hoofs against the naked roots, he heard the sharp sound of the forest echo, and he quickened his pace as he drew near a familiar hut. A dog barked, and whitewashed walls glimmered through the trees.
Vladimir Korolenko (27 juli 1853 25 december 1921)
De Engelstalige schrijver Lafcadio Hearn werd geboren op 27 juli 1850 op het Griekse eiland Lefkada. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2009.
Uit: Chita. A Memory of Last Island
Thirty years ago, Last Island lay steeped in the enormous light of even such magical days. July was dying;for weeks no fleck of cloud had broken the heavens blue dream of eternity; winds held their breath; slow wavelets caressed the bland brown beach with a sound as of kisses and whispers. To one who found himself alone, beyond the limits of the village and beyond the hearing of its voices,the vast silence, the vast light, seemed full of weirdness. And these hushes, these transparencies,
do not always inspire a causeless apprehension: they are omens sometimesomens of coming tempest. Nature, incomprehensible Sphinx!before hermightiest bursts of rage, ever puts forth her divinest witchery, makes more manifest her awful beauty. . . .
But in that forgotten summer the witchery lasted many long days,days born in rose-light, buried in gold. It was the height of the season. The long myrtle-shadowed village was thronged with its summer population;the big hotel could hardly accommodate all its guests;the bathing-houses were too few for the crowds who flocked to the water morning and evening. There were diversions for all,hunting and fishing parties, yachting excursions, rides, music, games, promenades.
Carriage wheels whirled flickering along the beach, seaming its smoothness noiselessly, as if muffled. Love wrote its dreams upon the sand. . . .
. . . Then one great noon, when the blue abyss of day seemed to yawn over the world more deeply than ever before, a sudden change touched the quicksilver smoothness of the watersthe swaying shadow of a vast motion.
Lafcadio Hearn (27 juli 1850 26 september 1904)
De Poolse dichteres Rajzel Zychlinski werd geboren op 27 juli 1910 in Gąbin, Polen. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2009.
Who calls me here in the meadow?
Who still knows my name?
A thorn bush burns in the field--
a child cries from the flames.
I take off my shoes and approach
the little son of my neighbor;
his little hands are charcoal,
but his eyes are open still.
.......................
I am leaving you, shtetl,
your roads are blue as before.
You will celebrate autumns and fairs,
and the river will flow through the valley.
Rajzel Zychlinski (27 juli 1910 13 juni 2001)
De Franse schrijver Alexandre Dumas fils werd geboren op 27 juli 1824 in Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2009.
Uit: La Dame aux camélias
Je restai quelque temps dans cette heureuse famille, tout occupée de celui qui leur apportait la convalescence de son coeur. Je revins à Paris oùj'écrivis cette histoire telle qu'elle m'avait été racontée. Elle n'a qu'un mérite qui lui sera peut-être contesté, celui d'être vraie. Je ne tire pas de ce récit la conclusion que toutes les filles comme Marguerite sont capables de faire ce qu'elle a fait ; loin de là, maisj'ai eu connaissance qu'une d'elles avait éprouvé dans sa vie un amour sérieux, qu'elle en avait souffert et qu'elle en était morte.J'ai raconté au lecteur ce quej'avais appris. C'était un devoir. »
Alexandre Dumas fils (27 juli 1824 - 27 november 1895)
Buste door Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux in het Musée d'Orsay
Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2008 en ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2007.
De Russische dichter en soldaat Denis Vasilyevich Davydov werd geboren op 27 juli 1784 in Moskou..
27-07-2010 om 19:55
geschreven door Romenu 
|
