I had to paraphrase two poems for British Literature, enjoy!
To Nature, Paraphrase of Samuel Coleridge's poem:
I may be dreaming when I
Try to take from all creatures
True joy that stays;
And show in nature around me
how to be devoted and loving.
Despite if the world may be
Mocking me for this believe I have no
Sorrow, worry, or nervousness.
I will worship in the fields
And the sky shall be my roof
With the smell of the wildflower
As my tribute to God above.
And to Him only! And with mercy you will treat
me, a priest with little to sacrifice.
Try to take from all creatures
True joy that stays;
And show in nature around me
how to be devoted and loving.
Despite if the world may be
Mocking me for this believe I have no
Sorrow, worry, or nervousness.
I will worship in the fields
And the sky shall be my roof
With the smell of the wildflower
As my tribute to God above.
And to Him only! And with mercy you will treat
me, a priest with little to sacrifice.
Ode to a Nightingale, Paraphrase of John Keat's poem:
I feel pain in my heart, which through tired numbness
My understanding, as if I had drunk poison,
Or swallowed drugs.
After only a minute I sunk toward the Greek river of forgetfulness:
It is not because I’m jealous of a happy person,
However, I find myself happier in your happiness,
That you, the wood nymphs of the trees with wings,
In a place so beautiful it gives of music,
A shadowy place, a green place,
where you sing easily of summer days.
I long for a drink of cool liquid,
From a cold underground stream,
let it taste of the Goddess of flowers and spring, and all the green world,
Let us dance to a peasants song and enjoy the warm sun!
How I desire a drink full of warmth such as this!
Such as the fountain filled with literature and art on Mt. Helicon
Overflowing,
and a rim marked by the run-over;
if I drink, I can leave this world,
and disappear into the forest:
Traveling far away, I will soon forget,
What nature has never experienced,
Worry, tiredness, and sickness
In a hospital where all you can hear is pain;
Paralysis takes over their bodies, and they lose their hair,
Youth grow old quickly and die from sickness;
You cannot even think, because your mind turns to anxiety
and eyes dulled lose all hope;
In the place devoid of beauty,
Where they feel the ache of new love.
I will help you leave,
Not by drinking the wine of the gods,
but by showing the world through poetry,
Even if the brain is slow and confused:
Let us hurry! The night is young,
Luckily the moon is out,
Surrounded by her fairy-like stars,
No light enter this place,
Except for the light carried on the wind,
Through depressing greens and twisted mossy paths.
I can’t see the flowers on the ground,
Nor the smell the essence of the tree branches,
However, in the preserved darkness guessing each sugary food,
With which each season gives us,
The grass, the brush, and a wild fruit tree;
A white flower, and the rustically peaceful sweet brier;
Wilting violets covered by leaves;
And the middle of May’s oldest flower,
The musk-rose full of wine,
The frequent noise of flies in the nights of the summer.
In the night I often listen,
and have fallen half in love with smooth death,
I have often spoke of him kindly in a wondering line,
Asking if he would take me;
Like never before I welcome death,
To come at midnight and end my pain,
While you spread your soul to others
With such bliss!
Still you sing and I cannot hear you—
To your high funeral song we become one with the ground.
The immortal bird was not born for death!
You are not pulled down by our ancestors;
I hear voice that was heard
In the old days by kings and jesters:
Maybe it was the exact same song
That touched a outcast woman’s heart,
As she cried over the death of her husband in the field;
The same that has
Opened magic chests found floating on
Dangerous seas in lands undiscovered.
Hopelessness! The word is like a bell
That when rung returns me to reality!
Farewell! Fancy is not as convincing
as she said to be, a deceiver.
Farewell! Farewell! Your mournful life song becomes feeble
past hayfields and over abandoned waterways
climbing the hill; And now it puts itself under the ground
In the next dip in the ground there are no trees:
Was I hallucinating or daydreaming?
Escape is the melody:—Am I asleep or awake?
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