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Poem on my blog

Will and Heidi are observing "poem on your blog day" as a way of finishing off National Poetry Month. (I appear to have mistaken it for "national hockey-watching month.")

Anyway, I like the old romantic poets: Keats, Tennyson, people like that. They do such great nature poems. Here's Ode to Autumn, by John Keats:

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-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed 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-brimmed their clammy cell.

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-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed 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 cider-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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


National Poetry MONTH? A day would be long, in my opinion.


Ohhhh, reading that just made my day. You can just wrap yourself up and feel warm in good poetry like that. I like the Romantics because they're not afraid to just revel in the beauty of the subject and the beauty of the words. And frankly, I'm not reading poetry to be jarred out of my consciousness or to feel glib and ironic and meta.
I also like the Romantics because they're not afraid to write poems about lesbian vampires.