Randall Jarrell: Look at my life. Should I go on with it?
John Donne on the dust of humanity

She died, like a sweet dream when the sleeper is sad that it has gone

She died, like the ruddy clouds in the east at the break of day, which are envied by the sun for their beauty as it rises in its glory to darken them.

She died, like a glimpse of sunlight when the shadow races in pursuit; she died, like a rainbow when the shower has fallen and its glory is past.

She died, like snow which lies on the shore by the sea, when the pitiless tide flows over it-- oh whiteness! and it did not enjoy it for long.

She died, like the voice of the harp when it is sweetest and most solemn; she died, like a lovely tale when the telling has barely begun.

She died, like the gleam of the moon when the sailor is afraid in the dark; she died, like a sweet dream when the sleeper is sad that it has gone.

She died, at the beginning of her beauty; Heaven could not dispense with her; she died, oh Màiri died, like the sun quenched at its rising.

  --Evan Maccoll (1808-1898), from A Celtic Miscellany: Translations From the Celtic Literatures (1951), ed. [and translated by] Kenneth Hurlstone Jackson (1909-1991)

 If you have the original Gaelic, could you please send it in?



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