William Wordsworth (7 april 1770 23 april 1850)
De Engelse dichter William Wordsworth werd geboren op 7 april 1770 in Cumberland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Composed Upon Westminster Bridge
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
De Amerikaanse schrijver Donald Barthelme werd geboren op 7 april 1931 in Philadelphia. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007.
"Will You Tell Me?"
Hubert gave Charles and Irene a nice baby for Christmas. The baby was a boy and its name was Paul. Charles and Irene who had not had a baby in many years were delighted. They stood around the crib and looked at Paul; they could not get enough of him. He was a handsome child with dark hair, dark eyes. Where did you get him Hubert? Charles and Irene asked. From the bank, Hubert said. It was a puzzling answer, Charles and Irene puzzled over it. Everyone drank mulled wine. Paul regarded them from the crib. Hubert was pleased to have been able to please Charles and Irene. They drank more wine.
Eric was born.
Hubert and Irene had a clandestine affair. It was important they felt that Charles not know. To this end they bought a bed which they installed in another house, a house some distance from the house in which Charles, Irene and Paul lived. The new bed was small but comfortable enough. Paul regarded Hubert and Irene thoughtfully. The affair lasted for twelve years and was considered very successful.
Hilda.
Charles watched Hilda growing from his window. To begin with, she was just a baby, then a four-year-old, then twelve years passed and she was Pauls age, sixteen. What a pretty young girl! Charles thought to himself. Paul agreed with Charles; he had already bitten the tips of Hildas pretty breast with his teeth.
De Chileense dichteres en diplomate Gabriela Mistral werd geboren in Vicuña, Chili op 7 april 1889. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007.
The Sad Mother
Sleep, sleep, my beloved,
without worry, without fear,
although my soul does not sleep,
although I do not rest.
Sleep, sleep, and in the night
may your whispers be softer
than a leaf of grass,
or the silken fleece of lambs.
May my flesh slumber in you,
my worry, my trembling.
In you, may my eyes close
and my heart sleep.
To See Him Again
Never, never again?
Not on nights filled with quivering stars,
or during dawn's maiden brightness
or afternoons of sacrifice?
Or at the edge of a pale path
that encircles the farmlands,
or upon the rim of a trembling fountain,
whitened by a shimmering moon?
Or beneath the forest's
luxuriant, raveled tresses
where, calling his name,
I was overtaken by the night?
Not in the grotto that returns
the echo of my cry?
Oh no. To see him again --
it would not matter where --
in heaven's deadwater
or inside the boiling vortex,
under serene moons or in bloodless fright!
To be with him...
every springtime and winter,
united in one anguished knot
around his bloody neck!
Pine Forest
Let us go now into the forest.
Trees will pass by your face,
and I will stop and offer you to them,
but they cannot bend down.
The night watches over its creatures,
except for the pine trees that never change:
the old wounded springs that spring
blessed gum, eternal afternoons.
If they could, the trees would lift you
and carry you from valley to valley,
and you would pass from arm to arm,
a child running
from father to father.
De Oostenrijkse schrijver Johannes Mario Simmel werd op 7 april 1924 in Wenen geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007.
Uit: Liebe ist die letzte Brücke
Die weiße Villa war von Sorels Frau Irene eingerichtet worden, alles entsprach ihrem Geschmack, durchaus nicht seinem, doch darüber sprach er nie, so sehr belasteten ihn Arbeit und Sorgen. Oft glaubte Sorel, in all dem Prunk kaum atmen zu können, und wann immer es möglich war, zog er sich in sein Arbeitszimmer mit dem vollgeräumten Schreibtisch zu Computer, elektronischen Geräten und den Regalen voll Fachliteratur zurück. Hier fühlte er sich, wennschon nicht glücklich, so doch freier.
Aus dem Musikzimmer erklang durch die geöffnete zweiflügelige Tür nun sehr laut Scarlattis Musik. Sorel sah, daß seine Frau auf dem Cembalo spielte, einem besonders schönen Stück aus jener Zeit, in der auch Scarlatti auf solchen Instrumenten gespielt hatte. Mit schnellen Schritten trat er zu Irene und küßte flüchtig ihr blondes Haar. Sie trug es in der Mitte gescheitelt und nach hinten zu einem Knoten gebunden, den eine Schleife aus schwarzem Samt hielt.
Irene sah zu ihm auf und lächelte, ohne ihr Spiel zu unterbrechen. Gleich darauf sah sie wieder weg. Sie trug einen Hausmantel aus schwarzem Samt, ein zarter Duft umgab sie. Fleurs de Rocaille ist das, dachte Sorel. Irene benützt dieses Parfüm, seit ich sie kenne.
Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007.
De Canadese schrijver en essayist Roger Lemelin werd geboren op 7 april 1919 in Quebec.
De Franse schrijver Hervé Bazin werd geboren in Angers op 7 april 1911.
De Deense dichter en schrijver Jens Peter Jacobsen werd geboren op 7 april 1847 in Thisted.
De Franse schrijfster en strijdster voor vrouwenrechten Flora Tristan werd geboren op 7 april 1803 in Parijs.
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