Keats si Burns, acum 189 de ani
In aceasta zi, in 1818, John Keats l-a vizitat pentru prima data pe Robert Burns in Alloway si a compus sonetul “Written in the Cottage Where Burns Was Born”. Keats avea 22 de ani, era foarte putin publicat, si plecase intr-un turneu care a tinut o vara intreaga, prin nord, parcurgand 20-30 de mile pe zi, mancand doar oua si prajitura de secara. Toate poeziile sale bune au fost scrise intr-o perioada de 9 luni, incepand cu ianuarie anul urmator. A inceput sa tuseasca cu sange in 3 februarie anul urmator (“acel strop de sange e garantia mortii mele”), si a murit in 23 februarie. Aceste date sunt legate de sonetul despre Burns datorita primului vers, care pare a fi o premonitie a mortii care a survenit la o diferenta de doar 43 de zile.
This mortal body of a thousand days
Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,
Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
My pulse is warm with thine old Barley-bree,
My head is light with pledging a great soul,
My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see,
Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;
Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,
Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find
The meadow thou hast tramped o’er and o’er,
Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,
O smile among the shades, for this is fame!
Barley-bree e o aluzie la “Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut” a lui Burns, cu Willie, Rob si Allan
Here are we met three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And monie a night we’ve merry been,
And monie mae we hope to be!
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That’s blinkin in the lift sae hie:
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee!
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun [rogue] is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa’,
He is the King amang us three!
Keats n-a fost multumit de sonet, si nu datorita bauturii ci din cauza batranelului care i-a fost ghid si gazda in coliba. Intr-o scrisoare catre un prieten, Keats spune: “omul din coliba era atat de plictisitor cu anecdotele sale – incat cine ar fi stat de vorba cu el trebuia sa fie dat afara – sublimul creatiei mele a fost ingradit – acest caine fad m-a facut sa scriu un sonet fad.”
