When you notice the early version of Yeats'
poem The Man Who Dreamed of Fairyland,
whose raw translation from late version you
had just roughly put together, finally, (and
having done so, you had sighed with relief),
was a greatly different poem altogether
from the late one, then what do you do?
You groan, and you start doing them both.
Because what else there is to do?
21.06.2024
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