By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Aurora Leigh is the most important instance of the mid-nineteenth-century poem of up to date lifestyles. This verse-novel is a richly exact illustration of the early Victorian age. The social landscape extends from the slums of London, during the literary global, to the higher periods and a few impressive satiric snap shots: an aunt with rigidly traditional notions of woman schooling; Romney Leigh, the Christian socialist; Lord Howe, the beginner radical; Sir Blaise Delorme, the
ostentatious Roman Catholic; and the unscrupulous society good looks woman Waldemar.
However, the dominant presence within the paintings is the narrator, Aurora Leigh herself. From early years in Italy and formative years within the West kingdom to the vocational offerings, artistic struggles, and emotional entanglements of her first decade of grownup lifestyles, Aurora Leigh develops her rules on artwork, love, God, the lady query, and society.
This is the 1st seriously edited and completely annotated version for nearly a century.
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Poezii precum „Noapte de Bobotează” coboară și mai adânc în îndoială, descriind un Cristos a cărui cruce dispare ca un vis în frigul de dimineață, în timp ce versurile rigide din „Testament,” „Psalm” și „Rost și reazem” reafirmă cu o fermitate sumbră credința. În general totuși, poeziile îl descriu pe Dumnezeu ca pe o sursă de eliberare și bucurie, iar pe omenire ca plină de iubire și de generozitate, aspirând spre aer și lumină spirituală. Poeziile pentru Răzvan, în special, și „Romanță pentru Viorica-Ileana” evocă iubirea familială și dorul de casă, iar „Părintele Galeriu” ne arată că sfințenia poate să existe chiar și în mijlocul violenței și degradării.
Mircea Ionescu-Quintus Siutghiol1 In the great bucket the waves are still; silent, the excavators dig no more; the jaundiced moon has fallen ill reflecting on her face in water. The frogs and crickets have started to chatter, at lake edge the rushes rustle; nothing endures from the day’s bustle but the black bird cawing his broken vespers From “Rex” over there float jazzy strains like notes suspended on a wire stave, like the renewed memory of an old pain, like the first thrill of a late love. Tracers and stars play in the night vagabond rest takes a chilly seat the whispered stories lie awake the stones, asleep with their snouts in the lake.
O, Doamne, cât aş vrea să ştiu, eu, într-o zi, cât am să scriu? Mircea Ionescu-Quintus At Jilava I read on a wall, scrawled in blood: “locked here for eight years,” and saw you, brave and silent, humble scribe unknown. Below, on the same wall, engraved: “five years and six months I stayed,” and as I stared at gates and walls there were but years, and months, and lives. I read on a wall, scrawled in blood, I was locked up, I was locked up . . Oh God, how I want to know what tally, one day, will I scrawl?