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Visitors since 11 August 2001

Poetry is what is lost
in translation.
It is also what is lost
in interpretation.

The Deserter

If sadly thinking,
With spirit sinking,
Could more than drinking
    My cares compose,
A cure for sorrow
From sighs I'd borrow,
And hope to-morrow
    Would end my woes.
But as in wailing
There's nought availing,
And Death unfailing
    Will strike the blow,
Then for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry
    Before we go.
To joy a stranger,
A way-worn ranger,
In every danger
    My course I've run;
Now hope all ending,
And Death befriending,
His last aid lending,
    My cares are done:
No more a rover,
Or hapless lover,
My griefs are over,
    My glass runs low;
Then for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry
    Before we go!

John Philpot Curran