(Berlin Western Restaurant, May 19 12)
Lilacs are in full bloom at the moment,
In front of my little room;
I think, in my flower bed,
Smiling carnations and pink;
On the border, I know,
Poppies and pansies are in bloom. . .
Oh! Chestnuts, all summer,
I'll make it for you by the river
Green and dark tunnels, and sleep
Deep up; Green and deep
The mysterious stream glides below,
Green as a dream and deep as death.
Oh, shit! I knew it! I also know that/I know that too.
How golden the fields are in May,
When the sun is shining,
Barefoot gilded glory
Run to take a shower. . .
"My God!"
I'm here, sweating, sick, hot,
Dark waters become fresh.
Lean over and embrace the naked body.
The moody German Jew.
Drinking beer around; -there are dewdrops.
Soft in the golden morning light.
Tulips are in full bloom here because they are told;
Those hedges are blowing wildly.
An unofficial rose in Britain;
There is an uncontrolled sun.
At the end of the day, go down to rest,
Wake up a fuzzy unpunctual star,
Haitz Parr in slippers; And there are
Towards Hasling Field and Coton.
This is not forbidden there.
ειθε γενοιμην .。 . Will I?
In Grantchester, in Grantchester! —
Maybe some people can contact.
There is nature, or the earth, or something like that.
Smart modern people have seen
A faun peeps in the green,
I feel that the classics have not died out,
To get a glimpse of the pointed head of the North American antelope,
Or hear the goat's foot pipe low:. . .
But I don't know these things.
All I know is that you may lie.
Looking at the sky in Cambridge all day,
In the sleeping grass, the flowers are quiet,
Hearing the cool time go by,
Until the century is blurred.
In Grantchester, in Grantchester. . . .
Still cool in the waters of dawn
His ghostly aristocrat swims in his swimming pool,
Try strokes, analytical skills,
Learn Hellespont or Styx for a long time.
Dan Chaucer heard his Silent River.
The chatter under the ghost mill.
Tennyson noticed that studious eyes,
How the water in Cambridge flows in a hurry. . .
In that garden, black and white,
Whispering in the grass all night;
And the dance of ghosts, before dawn,
There are a hundred priests on the lawn;
Pastor, long dust, come and go.
In Lissom, instruments, unprinted toes;
Often seen between branches
The cunning shadow of a rural provost. . .
Until the sky trembled,
As the demonic cries disappear,
The serious church collapsed.
Leaving only a frightened street sleeper,
The gray sky, the sleepy cry of the first bird,
A house that never collapses.
Oh, my god I'll pack my bags and take the train,
Let me go back to England again!
Because England is the only land, I know,
A place where people with brilliant hearts can go;
Throughout cambridgeshire, England,
Men in the shire understand;
I prefer that area.
Lovely little village in Grantchester.
Because Cambridge people seldom smile,
City, short and fat, full of cunning;
And royston people in the south.
Is black, fierce, strange mouth;
They swore at a man,
Worse than the oath in Trump,
Deaton girls are cheap and dirty,
There are no people under the age of 30 in Harston.
People in Shelford and those places.
Twisted lips and twisted hearts,
Bartons rhyme with a cockney accent,
Coton is full of nameless crimes,
You won't believe what happened.
On Christmas Eve in Mattingly.
Strong people run far, far away,
When a cherry Hinton smiles;
Strong men turned pale and shot their wives.
Instead of sending them to St. Ives;
Strong men cry like babies, Baidan,
Listen to what happened in Baboulaz?
But Grantchester! Ah, Grantchester!
There is peace and sacred tranquility,
Huge clouds over the Pacific Ocean,
Men and women with straight eyes,
Soft children are cuter than dreams,
A dense forest, a winding stream,
The breeze is blowing slowly
Dim corner, half asleep and half awake.
Their skin is white in Grantchester;
They bathe during the day and at night;
The women there do everything they should do;
People obey the rules of thought.
They love beautiful things; They worship the truth;
They laughed loudly when they were young;
When they feel old,
I was told that they got up and shot themselves. . .
Oh, my god Watch the branches shake.
On the moon in Grantchester!
To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten.
Unforgettable, unforgettable
Smell the river and listen to the breeze.
Sobbing in the small trees.
Say, is the elm bush big?
Still the guardian of the holy land?
Chestnut shade, in the priest's dream,
A trend that has not yet become academic?
Is dawn a secret, shy and cold
Silver and gold.
The sunset is still a golden ocean.
From Hasling Field to Mattingly?
After that, before night came,
Will the hare run out of the corn field?
Oh, the water is sweet and cold,
Gentle brown, above the pool?
The immortal river still laughs.
Under the mill, under the mill?
Say, is there any beauty that has not yet been discovered?
What about certainty? The quiet kind?
Deep grass, in order to forget
Lies, truth and pain? . . . Oh! however
The church clock points to ten minutes to three.
Is there any honey in the tea?
The last two sentences are what you want.