The Ride of Yeldis and Other Poems
- Indbinding:
- Paperback
- Sideantal:
- 100
- Udgivet:
- 25. juni 2023
- Størrelse:
- 127x6x203 mm.
- Vægt:
- 118 g.
- 8-11 hverdage.
- 16. januar 2025
På lager
Forlænget returret til d. 31. januar 2025
Normalpris
Abonnementspris
- Rabat på køb af fysiske bøger
- 1 valgfrit digitalt ugeblad
- 20 timers lytning og læsning
- Adgang til 70.000+ titler
- Ingen binding
Abonnementet koster 75 kr./md.
Ingen binding og kan opsiges når som helst.
- 1 valgfrit digitalt ugeblad
- 20 timers lytning og læsning
- Adgang til 70.000+ titler
- Ingen binding
Abonnementet koster 75 kr./md.
Ingen binding og kan opsiges når som helst.
Beskrivelse af The Ride of Yeldis and Other Poems
The Ride of Yeldis & Other Poems by Francis Vielé-Griffin (AD 1864-1937) was originally published in 1893 in France (under the title of Le chevauchée d¿Yeldis et autres poèmes). This is the first English-language edition of the work, by the pre-eminent French Symbolist poet, whose dreamy style recollects Rimbaud, and also, strangely, Wallace Stevens. Griffin was born in the U.S., but emigrated with his mother to France at the age of seven or eight, not long after the Civil War ended.
The poetry speaks for itself:
The turrets that covered Her with their shadow
Rose like organ pipes against the sky,
Those evenings in June, with countless voices;
And, really, all the music
That vibrated on the terraces rich in honey,
Throughout that slow, sun-drenched June,
Was like one long canticle,
Of many voices, filled with wonder...
* * *
In an odor of tossed hay,
In a murmur of the rustic ford,
Through the diaphanous shade,
Come: oblique shadow,
The hay smells of love,
The water¿s song is tender, silent, grave
Like a distant canticle
- The year has made its round.
The poetry speaks for itself:
The turrets that covered Her with their shadow
Rose like organ pipes against the sky,
Those evenings in June, with countless voices;
And, really, all the music
That vibrated on the terraces rich in honey,
Throughout that slow, sun-drenched June,
Was like one long canticle,
Of many voices, filled with wonder...
* * *
In an odor of tossed hay,
In a murmur of the rustic ford,
Through the diaphanous shade,
Come: oblique shadow,
The hay smells of love,
The water¿s song is tender, silent, grave
Like a distant canticle
- The year has made its round.
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