Sunday, November 4, 2007

About our day off

Since I am still sick (for those whose curiosity is unbounded--this cold started with a sore throat; segued into a fever of 102; gathered itself into a mucus-generating phrase which has exacerbated itself into an annoying post-nasal-drip cough; and, worst of all, resulted in voicelessness. ON MY BIRTHDAY!) I thought I would rely on a guest writer for some good stuff.
(As I mentioned, I am sick and IT'S MY BIRTHDAY.)

I was going to post one of my favorite John Keat's poems, this one:

When I have Fears that I may Cease to Be

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

But that seems pretty depressing for a sick person. Because I do plan to get better, any minute!

So I chose this one instead, because my birthday is in autumn, and I don't like it, but a poem like this makes me feel a little better, plus, our poet mentions spring:

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Poems borrowed from: Poetry of John Keats (1795-1821)
Find out more about John Keats here:

Well, stop surfin', go rest somewhere.


1 comment:

Bartleby said...

I'm sorry you're feeling poorly, and trust you'll be much improved very soon.

Meanwhile, those Patriots are some prime thugs, no? Makes me ill to think we'll hear more of the "perfect season" talk, and that nauseating Brady-walking-on-water nonsense. Now I think I'm getting sick, too.