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4 luglio 2011 1 04 /07 /luglio /2011 17:52

il cielo carico di nuvole, qualche lontano brontolio,preannuncio di un imminente acquazzone in città, aumentano il fascino ambiguo della mia città sospesa tra il glorioso passato e l'incerto futuro...

 

 


 

Jonathan Swift

           

A Description of a City Shower

 

        Careful observers may foretell the hour

        (By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower:

        While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er

        Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.

        Returning home at night, you'll find the sink

        Strike your offended sense with double stink.

        If you be wise, then go not far to dine,

        You spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.

        A coming shower your shooting corns presage,

        Old aches throb, your hollow tooth will rage.

        Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;

        He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.

 

        Mean while the South rising with dabbled wings,

        A sable cloud a-thwart the welkin flings,

        That swilled more liquor than it could contain,

        And like a drunkard gives it up again.

        Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,

        While the first drizzling shower is born aslope,

        Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean

        Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean.

        You fly, invoke the gods; then turning, stop

        To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop.

        Not yet, the dust had shunned the unequal strife,

        But aided by the wind, fought still for life;

        And wafted with its foe by violent gust,

        'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.

        Ah! where must needy poet seek for Aid,

        When dust and rain at once his coat invade;

        Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain,

        Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain.

 

        Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,

        Threatening with deluge this devoted town.

        To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,

        Pretend to cheapen Goods, but nothing buy.

        The Templar spruce, while every spout's a-broach,

        Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.

        The tucked-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,

        While streams run down her oiled umbrella's sides.

        Here various kinds by various fortunes led,

        Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.

        Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,

        Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.

        Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits,

        While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits;

        And ever and anon with frightful din

 

 

 


un ricordo dell'università....

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