Poetic Synesthesia : Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats/ Poética Sinestesia: Ode a um Rouxinol de John Keats
While feeling the senses of scent and taste, I see the written lines of the dead poet, I hear his whispering fragrant voice in the nocturnal darkness and an aromatic breath goes deeper in my olfaction, warms some dewy drops on my skin and the nightingale kisses me, the soul... touches me, my senses, awakes me, all of me, into the perfume of the poetry.
Sense it!Feel it!
"...tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass , the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ;
White hawthorn , and the pastoral eglantine ;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves ;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose , full of dewy wine, The
murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
In feel the sense of smell and flavor, I see written on the lines of the dead poet, the sound of your voice whispering in the darkness bright fragrant, and a breath oloroso deeply penetrates my nose, warm the drops of my skin dewy and the nightingale kiss my soul, it touches my senses, waking me to the perfume of poetry.
Sinestesie up!
"... the night is soft
And maybe the Queen Moon is on her throne,
fairy surrounded by their stellar ,
But there's no light
Otherwise the one with the breezes of heaven blow
For glaucous dark and winding paths of moss .
I do not see that flowers are at my feet,
Neither which soft incense of branches exudes
But in embalmed darkness, devotion to flavor sweet
each month regala
The grass, the hood, fruit trees and wild ;
White hawthorn, honeysuckle and pastoral;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose , full of dewy wine, The
murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
