A blackbird sings on Bluebird hill

Image result for wild flowers butterflies

 

November brought to mind in August: 

The lack of light, that all day twilight!

How can anybody live through such visual misery?

Without declining into snake, or toad?

Even the trees will have no leaves.

And the cold will rise to infect our eyes!

We are, unfortunately, not Italian, nor Etruscan,

Just woolly-backed mammoth barbarian sorcerers

Of a certain druidical disposition: visceral,

Bruised, damaged, rag and bone men of the heart,

Who can rise to the cloud-topping disquisitions

Of an unfettered poetry brought to the world

In strictest measure

By the boozers and the losers, by the mead imbibers,

The wine guzzlers, laudanum tipplers of Stratford atte Bowe,

And elsewhere, in these foggy isles of our own making;

For what is past is prologue to the future,

And all the realm will be full of sweet airs,

Perforated by the drift of lazy, gaudy butterflies,

Who give delight and hurt not,

As was once-upon-a-time foretold.

 

 

 

 

◄ John Keats 1795-1821

Echoes of history ►

Comments

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John Marks

Sun 4th Aug 2019 23:57

Thank you Devon and Adam. ...but remember, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit....


"Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again. And then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again."

The Tempest. Act 3 Scene 2. Shakespeare's last play. Spoken by Caliban the lowly, revolting 'barbarian'..

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Adam Rabinowitz

Sun 4th Aug 2019 22:42

Such an epic scope to your work here. Hope for the butterflies.

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Devon Brock

Sun 4th Aug 2019 22:20

What a fun read, John. Love the sarcasm in the last four lines. I tip a glass of red to you.

D

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