Having a new place to live certainly has it's - admittedly very few - disadvantages, like the fact that our almighty computer now resides amongst a pile of boxes and bags containing our life, all the VTs and PEs and stuff peacefully sleeping under layers of cardboard and while it works and all, it does not exactly facilitate making longer posts or indeed - which would be more important at the end of the day - working on EldarinWiki (speaking of which, I see, we have a new contributor... Hail, Palatinus, and well met!)

Anyway, for the time being, until the dust settles here (and also over there on elfling...) here is a short translation, of Yeats, who else:

A POET TO HIS BELOVED

BRING you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.


------



Lairemo meldaryan


Antan lyen mainen nucumne
i parmar olorinyaron únótime
nique nis mailenen yerna
ve lanwe yerya litser cúamiste
ar as enda linyenwa lá i romba
penquanta lúmeva nárello malwa:
nique nis arwa olorinyaron únótime
mailie óquettanyar inye lyen anta.