Gustave Courtois, Orpheus, 1875 Someone spoke of your death, Heraclitus,and it moved me to tears, and I remembered howoften we put the sun to sleepas we were talking.You, my friend from Halicarnassus, lie somewhere,long long ago gone to dust; but your nightingales are living, and Hades who snatches everything will never lay his hand upon them. …
Nikolay Bogdanov-Belsky, Country boys, 1916 I don’t sleep. I see a road, a grove making my chest tight, anxious; where we went to be alone and together, another boy and I. It was Easter; the rites long and strange and old. And if you loved me— I thought—wouldn’t there be more tomorrow? And tomorrow never …
Édouard Manet, Chez le père Lathuille, 1879 Hai tempo ancor prima che parta il treno,vieni meco a cenar, ex amor mio;se oggi per sempre vuoi lasciarmi, almenoinnaffiam colla bionda acqua del Renol’ultimo addio.Assai ci amammo una stagione intera,or, di me stanca, te ne fuggi ed iol’omaggio non ti fo d’una preghiera.Amici sempre, diamoci stasseral’ultimo addio.Non …
Vincent van Gogh, The Drinkers (after Honoré Daumier), 1890 Should auld acquaintance be forgot,and never brought to mind?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,and days of auld lang syne?And days of auld lang syne, my dear,and days of auld lang syne.Should auld acquaintance be forgot,and days of auld lang syne?We twa hae run aboot the braesand pu’d …
Robert Burns – Vecchi tempi andati / Auld Lang Syne Read More »
Pompeo Mariani, Le perdute a Montecarlo, 1909 Ei! merry companions,your madness infects me.My whole soul rises and falls and leaps and tumbles with you!I shout aloud and incite you, o white-headed merry companions.The sight of you alone is better than drinking.The brazen band is loosened from off my forehead;my breast and my brain are moistened …
Robert Louis Stevenson – Allegre compagne / Merry companions Read More »
Silvestro Lega, The betrothed, 1869 The splendid the delirious rain has eased, kisses us with rare final droplets. Outside again love is close by me and friendship. And that murmur, till just then almost imploring, from the darkened portico rumbles at my back now, breaks from my past: faces unaltered they’ll be, same as ever, …
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