E.E. Cummings, ‘wantrouwe wy dit net sa grutte doaske,pop’

 
wantrouwe wy dit net sa grutte doaske,pop,
folslein heimsinnich,mei sletten lid
dat yn koweletters dochs kreas beskrifte is
mei ‘Unstjerlikens’.     En komme net
te tichteby,ek al snije minsken op
oer de wûndere dingen deryn dy’t al
mei al te goed binne en rin se mis –
mar wy geane foarby,tegearre,bliuwe fral
op ôfstân.     Sizze neat.     Litte skoan
ús fuotten tinke.     Sette de siken stop –
sjogge wy dernei dan reitsje wy it leafst ek oan.
En dat moat net want(eat seit my)
hoe tige hoeden ek sadree’t wy
it yn hannen nimme

                                      popt Blauwe Fedde op

 

let us suspect,chérie,this not very big
box completely mysterious,on whose shut
lid in large letters but neatly is
inscribed “Immortality”.     And not
go too near it,however people brag
of the wonderful things inside
which are altogether too good to miss—
but we’ll go by,together,giving it a wide
berth.     Silently.     Making our feet
think.     Holding our breath—
if we look at it we will want to touch it.
And we mustn’t because(something tells me)
ever so very carefully if we
begin to handle it

                                 out jumps Jack Death

 

Ut Etcetera. The Unpublished Poems, 1983: ‘Poems for Elaine Orr, 1918–19’

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