13 oct.
Pregătiţi-vă pentru iarnă
Or avea şi pentru schi?! 
03 feb.
Earmuffs
Winters are fierce where he lives, so the owner of the estate felt he was doing a good deed when he bought earmuffs for his foreman.
Noticing, however, that the foreman wasn’t wearing the earmuffs even on the bitterest day, the landlord asked, „Didn’t you like the muffs?”
The foreman said, „They’re a thing of beauty.”
„Why don’t you wear them?”
The foreman explained, „I was wearing them the first day, and somebody offered to buy me a drink, but I didn’t hear him!”
11 ian.
„Winter” de James Thomson
| Mean while, the Leaves, That, late, the Forest clad with lively Green, Nipt by the drizzly Night, and Sallow-hu‘d, Fall, wavering, thro‘ the Air; or shower amain, Urg‘d by the Breeze, that sobs amid the Boughs. Then list‘ning Hares foesake the rusling Woods, And, starting at the frequent Noise, escape To the rough Stubble, and the rushy Fen. Then Woodcocks, o‘er the fluctuating Main, That glimmers to the Glimpses of the Moon, Stretch their long Voyage to the woodland Glade: Where, wheeling with uncertain Flight, they mock The nimble Fowler‘s Aim. – Now Nature droops; Languish the living Herbs, with pale Decay: And all the various Family of Flowers Their sunny Robes resign. The falling Fruits, Thro‘ the still Night, forsake the Parent-Bough, That, in the first, grey, Glences of the Dawn, Looks wild, and wonders at the wintry Waste. |
Iar frunzele-ntre timp, Ce-n verde viu pădurea le-mbrăcase, De-ai nopţii stropi pişcate, şi livide, Cad rar şi-ncet, sau ca o ploaie iute, Când vântul, suspinând prin crengi, le smulge. Apoi fricoşii iepuri lasă crângul Şi, tresărind la zgomote, aleargă Spre mirişti aspre sau spre bălţi cu trestii; Sitari, peste întinderi mişcătoare, Ce scânteiază la lumina lunii, Mai vin o dată spre poieni de codri, Şi, dând ocol, îşi râd de pădurarul Cu arcu-ntins. Natura-ngenunchează, Şi ierburile lâncezesc, bolnave, Şi-a florilor familii felurite Îşi pierd vestmântul însorit. Iar noaptea, Cad poame şi se rup de creanga mamă, Ce-n zori, la primul licăr sur, arată Pustie, şi se miră de ruină-i. |