William Allingham, Ion Barbu, Rosalie Loveling, Tobias Smollett, Irving Wallace, Peter Abrahams

De Ierse dichter William Allingham werd geboren op 19 maart 1824 in Ballyshannon, Donegal. Zie ook alle tags voor William Allingham op dit blog.

Aeolian Harp

O pale green sea,
With long, pale, purple clouds above –
What lies in me like weight of love ?
What dies in me
With utter grief, because there comes no sign
Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line ?

O salted air,
Blown round the rocky headland still,
What calls me there from cove and hill?
What calls me fair
From thee, the first-born of the youthful night,
Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight ?

O yellow Star,
Quivering upon the rippling tide –
Sendest so far to one that sigh’d?
Bendest thou, Star,
Above, where the shadows of the dead have rest
And constant silence, with a message from the blest?


Song. O Spirit Of The Summer-Time!

O spirit of the Summer-time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.

Bring back the friendship of the sun;
The gilded evenings calm and late,
When weary children homeward run,
And peeping stars bid lovers wait.

Bring back the singing; and the scent
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime;
Oh, bring again my heart’s content,
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!

William Allingham (19 maart 1824 – 18 november 1889)


De Roemeense dichter en wiskundige Ion Barbu (eig. Dan Barbilian) werd geboren op 19 maart 1895 in Câmpulung. Zie ook alle tags voor Ion Barbu op dit blog.

The docmatic Egg (Fragment)
The Dogma: And the Spirit of GodMoved above the face of the waters

It’s given to these gloomy folks
The sterile egg for daily meal,
But lively egg with seed on top
It’s born in our sight as sunny seal!

As ancient world, in crystal time,
Is swimming in a thinly lime,
The new and pure egg – a gift
For wedding, a palace or a crypt.

Three sheets of silk coiled in a row,
The white sleeps in such bed of snow
So languid, and enclosed, serene,
Like loved-one tumbled in a dream.
The human seed?
From very high
From the plus pole of his own sky
Where lump of earth
Has never touched a bit.
He offers smoothly
His bursting kiss
So masculine
To the white
With its cold lips of hyaline.

Forgetful man, without return,
Behold the Holy Spirit how might turn
In forms cast just for you to see.
As in those times it’s now – the same:
In every tiny world the dogma burns its flame.


Vertaald door Liviu Georgescu

Ion Barbu (19 maart 1895 – 11 augustus 1961)


De Vlaamse schrijfster en dichteres Rosalie Loveling werd geboren op 19 maart 1834 in Nevele. Zie ook alle tags voor Rosalie Hoveling op dit blog.

Het maantje

De maan loopt door de wolken,
Zo zachtjes en zo snel;
De kindren komen buiten,
« 0, knaapje, ziet ge ’t wel? »

Toen stak het kleine knaapje
Naar haar zijn armkens uit,
En wou het maantje hebben,
En weende en schreide luid.

Ik kan het u niet geven:
0, zo ge later, kind,
Ook ’t levensheil woudt hebben,
Dat men op aard niet vindt,

Denk dan aan ’t zilvren maantje,
Dat door de wolken loopt,
En dat hij veel moet lijden,
Die op ’t onmooglijk hoopt.


In de oogst

Zij stonden op het akkerland
Zij maaiden in de zonnebrand
En zongen bij het werk
De lastige arbeid wordt een feest
Voor hen die jong en licht van geest
En moedig zijn en sterk

Daar kwam de landheer langs de beek
De schouders hoog de wangen bleek:
Hij zocht de schaduw daar.
Hij groette licht en ging voorbij
Gezang en arbeid staakten zij
En wezen hem elkaar.

Die man gevoelde zich zo fier
Hij dacht „dat zijn mijn velden hier
En ginder rijst mijn slot.
Wis knaagt de nijd u in ’t gemoed
Gij die op aarde zwoegen moet
Gij vloekt gewis uw lot.”

Toen zei er een met stille stem
„Wie ruilde zegt van ons met hem?”
En allen lachten. Geen
Aan wie zo ’n leven zonder vreugd
Aan wie de rijkdom zonder jeugd
Benijdenswaardig scheen.

Rosalie Loveling (19 maart 1834 – 4 mei 1875)


De Schotse romanschrijver Tobias George Smollett werd geboren op 19 maart 1721 in Dalquhurn in het tegenwoordige West Dunbartonshire. Zie ook alle tags voor Tobias Smolett op dit blog.

Uit: The Expedition of Humphry Clinker            

“SIR, I RECEIVED yours in course of post, and shall be glad to treat with you for the MS. which I have delivered to your friend Mr. Behn; but can by no means comply with the terms proposed. Those things are so uncertain—Writing is all a lottery—I have been a loser by the works of the greatest men of the age—I could mention particulars, and name names; but don’t chuse it—The taste of the town is so changeable. Then there have been so many letters upon travels   lately   published—What   between   Smollett’s,   Sharp’s, Derrick’s, Thickness’s, Baltimore’s and Baretti’s, together with Shandy’s Sentimental Travels, the public seems to be cloyed with that kind of entertainment—Nevertheless, I will, if you please, run the risque of printing and publishing, and you shall have half the profits of the impression—You need not take the trouble to bring up your sermons on my account—No body reads sermons but Methodists and Dissenters—Besides, for my own part, I am quite a stranger to that sort of reading; and the two persons, whose judgment I depended upon in these matters, are out of the way; one is gone abroad, carpenter of a man of war; and the other has been silly enough to abscond, in order to avoid a prosecution for blasphemy—I’m a great loser by his going off—He has left a manual of devotion half finished on my hands, after having received money for the whole copy—He was the soundest divine, and had the most orthodox pen of all my people; and I never knew his judgment fail, but in flying from his bread and butter on this occasion.
By owning you was not put in bodily fear by Lismahago, you preclude yourself from the benefit of a good plea, over and above the advantage of binding him over. In the late war, I inserted in my evening paper, a paragraph that came by the post, reflecting upon the behaviour of a certain regiment in battle. An officer of said regiment came to my shop, and, in the presence of my wife and journeyman, threatened to cut off my ears—As I exhibite marks of bodily fear, more ways than one, to the conviction of the byestanders, I bound him over; my action lay, and I recovered.”

Tobias Smollett (19 maart 1721  – 17 september 1771)


De Amerikaanse schrijver Irving Wallace werd geboren op 19 maart 1916 in Chicago, Illinois. Zie ook alle tags voor Irving Wallace op dit blog.

Uit: The Seven Minutes

“By eleven o’clock in the morning the sun had come out, and now thewomen of Oakwood, most of them housewives in summer attire andmost of them at the wheels of their own cars, were converging onthe business district to do their shopping.In the suddenly thickening traffic, the green two-door Ford coupewith a nasty dent in its front fender was at last forced to slowdown.Slumped in the seat beside the driver, Otto Kellog grunted hisdispleasure, then sat up impatiently to get his bearings. Heresented delays at a time like this, when he was anxious aboutwhat he must soon do. He wanted to get it over with as quickly aspossible.There was a jarring screech as Iverson, who was driving the car,slammed on the brake, muttering, ‘Goddam women drivers.”Yeah,’ said Keliog. ‘Wish they’d get moving.’In the rear the third occupant of the coupe, Eubank, older, moretolerant, less often exposed to the outside world than hiscompanions, seemed to be enjoying the interval. He had broughthimself forward from the back seat to peer over Iverson’s shoulderthrough the windshield. ‘So this is Oakwood,’ he said.’Attractive. I don’t know how many times I’ve been out this way,but I guess I never paid much attention before.”Nothing so different,’ said Iverson, easing his foot off thebrake. ‘It’s still Los Angeles County.”Well, it just looks more prosperous and settled down,’ said Eubank.
‘Maybe not for long,’ said Iverson. ‘We’re going to shake them upa little today.’ He glanced at Kellog, and grinned. ‘What do yousay, Otto ? Ready for action ?”Yeah,’ said Kellog, ‘providing we ever get there.’ He squintedthrough his sunglasses. ‘Third Street’s the next corner. You turnright the next corner.”I know,’ said Iverson.The traffic was moving again, loosening, and the green coupe movedwith it along Center Boulevard, and then swung sharply onto Third Street.”
The vehicle and foot traffic was thinner here on the side street.The man at the wheel showed relief. ‘There it is, middle of theblock,’ he said. ‘You can see the sign just after the AcmeJewelers. See it? Fremont’s Book Emporium. How do you like thatfor a name? Emporium.”Looks like there’s plenty of parking,’ said Eubank. ‘I wasworried there might not be any parking close by.”There’s always enough room once you get off Center Boulevard,’said Iverson. He spun the wheels of the car toward the curb, andexpertly brought it to a halt before the jewelry shop. As hereached to turn off the ignition, he spotted a young blonde, intight sweater and shorts, stepping out in front of the car,preparing to cross the street.”

Irving Wallace (19 maart 1916 – 29 juni 1990)


De Zuid-Afrikaanse schrijver Peter Abrahams werd op 19 maart 1919 geboren in Vrededorp bij Johannesburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Peter Abrahams op dit blog.

Uit: Mine Boy

“When the whistle blew for them to stop for food, one of the men who had been filling the trucks called Xuma. ‘I am Nana,’ the man told him, ‘you will eat with me.’ They found a shaded spot and sat on the ground. Everywhere men found places for themselves and ate their food. All the men had the same kind of little tins. In each tin was a hunk of mealie meal porridge cooked into a hardened chunk, a piece of meat, and a piece of very coarse compound bread. Nana divided his food and gave Xuma half. Xuma wiped his brow and leaned against the corrugated wall of the smoky shack. To the left was a mine-dump, big and over-powering. To the right of it they had been dumping sand all morn-ing without seeing anything for it. Nana followed his eyes. ‘It takes a long time,’ Nana said. ‘h it like this every day?’ ‘Every day.’ ‘It is a strange place.’ ‘It is hard when you are new, but it is not so bad. With a new one it is thus: First there is a great fear, for you work and you work and there is nothing to see for it. And you look and you look and the more you look the more there is nothing to see. This brings fear. But tomorrow you think, well, there will be nothing to look for and you do not look so much. The fear is less then. And the day after you look even less, and after that even less, and in the end you do not look at all. Then all the fear goes. It is so.’ ‘But the eyes of the men …’ Xuma protested. ‘The eyes of the men?’ ‘Yes. I watched them, they are like the eyes of sheep.’ Nana looked at Xuma and smiled. A smile that softened his face and made gentle creases round his mouth. ‘Are we not all sheep that talk,’ Nana said For a spell they ate in silence. When they had finished Nana stretched himself full-length on the ground and closed his eyes. One by one the other men did it too, till all were stretched full-length on the ground. ‘Do it too,’ Nana said, ‘it gives your body rest.’ Xuma obeyed. ‘Better, hell?’ ‘Yes.’

Peter Abrahams (Vrededorp, 19 maart 1919)