am 01.10.2003 21:35 Uhr schrieb Carrol Cox  unter [log in to unmask]:

> Eugene Schlanger wrote: Too bad Dido did not snub him before the pyre!
> Over 56 years ago (at which time I had never even read a plot summary of
> the _Aeneid), while loafing in the school library (high school) I picked
> up a copy of the Virginia Quarterly (I think), and opened it to an
> article by Robert Graves, absolutely raving at the dirty trick Aeneas
> pulled in the underworld. His interpretation of the scene was that Dido
> and her husband together in the world of the dead, that her husband did
> not know of her affir with Aeneas, and that by speaking to her Aeneas
> was intentionally intending to cause friction between the ghostly pair.
> Clearly my memory is not to be trusted over this span of time.
> If I am remembering correctly, the tone of the article was that Aeneas
> and Dido and their meeting in hell was historical fact. Graves seemed
> really, personally, angry at Aeneas.
> Carrol
> P.S. I've never read a lot of Graves, but the following poem is a joy
> forever.
> Warning to Children
> Children, if you dare to think
> Of the greatness, rareness, muchness,
> Fewness of this precious only
> Endless world  in which you say
> You live, you think of things like this:
> Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
> Red and green, enclosing tawny
> Yellow nets, enclosing white
> And black acres of dominoes,
> Where a neat brown paper parcel
> Tempts you to untie the string.
> In the parcel a small island,
> On the island a large tree,
> On the tree a husky fruit.
> Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
> In the kernel you will see
> Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
> Red and green, enclosed in tawny
> Yellow nets, enclosed by white
> And black acres of dominoes,
> Where the same brown paper parcel--
> Children, leave the string alone!
> For who dares undo the parcel
> Finds himself at once inside it,
> On the island, in the fruit,
> Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
> Green and red, enclosed by yellow
> Tawny nets, enclosed by black
> And white acres of dominoes,
> With the same brown paper parcel
> Still untied upon his knee.
> And, if he then should dare to think
> Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
> Greatness of this endless only
> Precious world in which he says
> He lives -- he then unties the string.

Dear Carrol,

many thanks for sharing a lovely poem!

In awe: