Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird.

Vackraste Ben Whishaw som John Keats i Bright Star.

Jag nu har lyckats memorerat hela Ode to a Nightingale. Väldigt rock'n'roll av mig, om jag får säga det själv. Och, även om det är en mindre bedrift, så kan jag inte hjälpa än att känna mig mäkta stolt. Så här kommer de fyra sista verserna:

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, the fruit-tree wild
White hawthorn and pastoral eglantine
Fast-fading violets, cover'd up in leaves
And mid-May's eldest child
The coming of musk-rose, full of dewy wine
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves

Darkling, I listen and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme
To take into the air my quiet breath
Now more than ever seems it rich to die
To cease upon the midnight with no pain
While thou art pouring fort thou soul abroad
In such an ecstasy
Still wouldst thou sing and I have ears in vain
To thou high requiem become a sod

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird
No hungry generation tread thee down
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown
Perhaps the self-same song found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home
She stood in tears amid the alien corn
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening at the foam
of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well,
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still-stream
Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades
Was it a vision or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: do I wake or sleep?

Samma sak här med kolon och semikolon, och bindestreck kom jag på. Men det är inte så jävla noga när jag kan hela dikten!

Jag borde se om Bright Star, men jag kommer gråta i en vecka om jag gör det. John Keats är så fin!