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Diez asturianos, becarios del programa de promocion exterior del IDEPA, estudiantes de la Universidad de Zhejiang, China
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Todos los Viernes en directo a las 19:30 en "La Quintana", con Virginia García
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25 de Agosto, 2007
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25 de Agosto, 2007, 14:43
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25 de Agosto, 2007, 11:06
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In white, in paint too representative
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
A frame of glided twilight—I
To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and Père
So, startled, quivering,
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
A frame of glided twilight—I
Reshaping magnified, each risen flake
Mère and Père Chose are walking away from the
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Wheezing ravens, when
Glimmering of light:
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Glimmering of light:
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
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25 de Agosto, 2007, 9:36
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When I am heard, and what I say is solely
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
To reach out into its own vanishing
But when, on the timepieces that we call
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
Winds blow sharp, what then?
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
I know,
The paths of childhood.
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
XX. To the Pole
That open before me? What I see
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
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25 de Agosto, 2007, 6:29
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And beyond, the same sound of bees
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
Seen. What you know is only manifest
Given by nature will soak into it.
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
Appendices
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Late February, and the air's so balmy
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
That patch of white at the very end of the road
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
The purest form is always the one
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
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