The best of a book is not the thought
which it contains, but the thought which it
suggests; just as the charm of music dwells not
in the tones but in the echoes of our hearts.
0000000 Oliver Wendell Holmes
0000000 Oliver Wendell Holmes
Reading by Lamplight, Georg Clausen (1852-1944)
WINTER: MY SECRET
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today ; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
Christina Rossetti
1830 - 1894
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today ; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
Christina Rossetti
1830 - 1894
Hello em, I haven't had time for leaving comments lately but I have been looking in each day. All your Advent Windows have been so lovely. I hope you had as much pleasure finding the pictures and quotations as your readers have in discovering them here. Maureen
SvaraRaderaMaureen,
SvaraRaderaYes, I had so much fun putting together the calendar - even if it was somewhat restricting to have to stick to English books - or find good translations.
I've meant to leave comments for you but I usually run out of steam before the day is over and haven't got that far. The book about in your last post sounds interesting.
Margaretha
Yes, Home, is a very beautifully written book. I read Gilead earlier this year (I am usually several years behind the fashion!) and loved it and then I heard about this book by the same author. I am sure rank alongside the best of the classics.
SvaraRaderaBoth books are available here - on the web - but I can't afford them right now. I'll check our library but I doubt they'll have them in English.
SvaraRaderaMargaretha