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poliphilo Fourways
Suggested by Heine
They buried him at the fourways,
Hoping his ghost would frown
In puzzlement at the fourways
And never get back to town.
Bluebells grow at the fourways
And sweeten the air with their breath,
Under the trees at the fourways.
Blue is the colour of death.
I stood all alone at the fourways
Where he lies under the ground
And watched the moon at the fourways
Steering the shadows round.
This is not a translation of Heine. One of his poems acted as a prompt for it but the two are very different. For one thing his poem has eight lines and mine has twelve...
Suggested by Heine
They buried him at the fourways,
Hoping his ghost would frown
In puzzlement at the fourways
And never get back to town.
Bluebells grow at the fourways
And sweeten the air with their breath,
Under the trees at the fourways.
Blue is the colour of death.
I stood all alone at the fourways
Where he lies under the ground
And watched the moon at the fourways
Steering the shadows round.
This is not a translation of Heine. One of his poems acted as a prompt for it but the two are very different. For one thing his poem has eight lines and mine has twelve...
