Keats - a Thing of Beauty

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences

For one short hour; no, even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,

The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast

That, whether there be shine or gloom o’ercast,

They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, ’tis with full happiness that I

Will trace the story of Endymion.

The very music of the name has gone

Into my being, and each pleasant scene

Is growing fresh before me as the green

Of our own valleys: so I will begin

Now while I cannot hear the city’s din;

Now while the early budders are just new,

And run in mazes of the youngest hue

About old forests; while the willow trails

Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails

Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year

Grows lush in juicy stalks, I’ll smoothly steer

My little boat, for many quiet hours,

With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.

Many and many a verse I hope to write,

Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,

Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees

Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,

I must be near the middle of my story.

O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,

See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,

With universal tinge of sober gold,

Be all about me when I make an end!

And now at once, adventuresome, I send

My herald thought into a wilderness:

There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress

My uncertain path with green, that I may speed

Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

No picture could quite capture the beauty of this poem, but here are some lovelies to try.

And, the trailer for Bright Star – Jane Campion’s film on Keats and Fanny, with its beautiful visuals which come close. (although the movie really missed the mark for me!) 

A Poemical Interlude: Study by D H Lawrence

Somewhere the long mellow note of the blackbird

Quickens the unclasping hands of hazel,

Somewhere the wind-flowers fling their heads back,

Stirred by an impetuous wind. Some ways’ll

All be sweet with white and blue violet.

    (Hush now, hush. Where am I?—Biuret—)

On the green wood’s edge a shy girl hovers

From out of the hazel-screen on to the grass,

Where wheeling and screaming the petulant plovers

Wave frighted. Who comes? A labourer, alas!

Oh the sunset swims in her eyes’ swift pool.

    (Work, work, you fool—!)

Somewhere the lamp hanging low from the ceiling

Lights the soft hair of a girl as she reads,

And the red firelight steadily wheeling

Weaves the hard hands of my friend in sleep.

And the white dog snuffs the warmth, appealing

For the man to heed lest the girl shall weep.

(Tears and dreams for them; for me

Bitter science—the exams. are near.

I wish I bore it more patiently.

I wish you did not wait, my dear,

For me to come: since work I must:

Though it’s all the same when we are dead.—

I wish I was only a bust,

      All head.)

Walrus and the Carpenter

The Walrus and the Carpenter 

from Through the Looking-Glass

by Lewis Carroll

_________________________________________________________________________________

The sun was shining on the sea, 
   Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make 
   The billows smooth and bright-- 
And this was odd, because it was
   The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily, 
   Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there 
   After the day was done-- 
“It’s very rude of him," she said,
   “To come and spoil the fun!”

The sea was wet as wet could be, 
   The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud because 
   No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead-- 
   There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter 
   Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see 
   Such quantities of sand:
“If this were only cleared away," 
   They said, “it would be grand!”

“If seven maids with seven mops 
   Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said, 
   “That they could get it clear?”
“I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
   And shed a bitter tear.

“0 Oysters, come and walk with us!” 
   The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, 
   Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four, 
   To give a hand to each.”

The eldest Oyster looked at him, 
   But never a word he said;
The eldest Oyster winked his eye, 
   And shook his heavy head-- 
Meaning to say he did not choose 
   To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up, 
   All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, 
   Their shoes were clean and neat-- 
And this was odd, because, you know, 
   They hadn’t any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them, 
   And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last, 
   And more and more and more-- 
All hopping through the frothy waves, 
   And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
   Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
   Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood 
   And waited in a row.

“The time has come," the Walrus said, 
   “To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
   Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot-- 
   And whether pigs have wings.”

“But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, 
   “Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath, 
   And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter. 
   They thanked him much for that.

“A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, 
   “Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
   Are very good indeed--
Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear, 
   We can begin to feed.”

“But not on us!” the Oysters cried, 
   Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be 
   A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine," the Walrus said, 
   “Do you admire the view?

“It was so kind of you to come! 
   And you are very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing but 
   “Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf-- 
   I’ve had to ask you twice!”

“It seems a shame," the Walrus said, 
   “To play them such a trick.
After we’ve brought them out so far, 
   And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but 
   “The butter’s spread too thick!”

“I weep for you," the Walrus said:
   “I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out 
   Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief 
   Before his streaming eyes.

“0 Oysters," said the Carpenter, 
   “You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?” 
   But answer came there none-- 
And this was scarcely odd, because
   They’d eaten every one.

Three Years She Grew

William Wordsworth wrote this poem about his daughter Lucy, who died when she was three years old; It's just one of those poems that makes you want to cry.

 

Three years she grew in sun and shower,

Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;

This Child I to myself will take;

She shall be mine, and I will make

A Lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me

The Girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn

That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;

And hers shall be the breathing balm,

And hers the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the Storm

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake—The work was done—

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.