Poesia inglesa

Fim-de-semana mergulhada em poesia de língua inglesa: Coleridge, com A balada do velho marinheiro (que me fez lembrar do albatroz do Baudelaire...) e um pouquinho de Byron, que compartilho com vocês. Estrofe 72 do canto III do Childe Harold:

I live not in myself, but I became
Portion of that around me; and to me
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture: I can see
Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain,
Classed among creatures, when the soul can flee,
And with the sky - the peak - the heaving plain
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle - and not in vain.