From off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sist'ring vale,
My spirits t'attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale,
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings atwain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.
Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcase of a beauty spent and done.
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven's fell rage
Some beauty peeped through lattice of
extract from A LOVER'S COMPLAINT
Kurt Tucholsky - Politische Briefe (Political letters)
After spending too much money on shoes that do not fit and lipstick that I already owned, I've finally showed some sense and bought this book for one euro at a thrift store. It's much much better than any history book and makes me want to find a penpal. (Anyone interested? I've got notepaper with kittens on it!) Sadly it seems like there's no english translation of Tucholsky's letters.
You're called reader. And I'm called J.