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Poetic Synesthesia : Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats/ Poética Sinestesia: Ode a um Rouxinol de John Keats

Poetry fragment. For complete poetry/information go to John Keats webpage . 

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.