It's not that I don't like the holiday. It's just that I was never big into dressing up for it anyway, and having a beard just calls for a little more creativity than I care to muster. Guess I'll be going as a motorcycling poet-type who teaches. I think I can pull it off....
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
This right here is one of my favorite Halloween things.
Speaking of ghosts, It's also John Keat's birthday. Not only is fantastic, but he's the only Romantic who I can picture NOT as an old man. But I guess that makes sense. Dude just didn't make it. Here's my favorite of his 54:
Ode on Melancholy
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
No suffer they pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill an April shroud;
then glut they sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealthy of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -- Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save his whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
And if you can spare a moment, a prayer for the passing of Robert Goulet....
Posted by Amelia Swhizzagers at 5:18 AM
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