“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter.” – John Keats
“Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?” – John Keats
“Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language, and the last, and it always tells the truth.” – Margaret Atwood
What can I do to drive away…
What can I do to drive away
Remembrance from my eyes? For they have seen,
Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
Touch has a memory, O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free
In my old liberty?
When every fair one that I saw was fair
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there:
When, howe’er poor or particolour’d things,
My muse had wings,
And ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,
Unintellectual, yet divine to me;
Divine, I say! – What sea-bird o’er the sea
Is a philosopher the while he goes
Winging along where the great water throes?
How shall I do
To get anew
Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more
The reach of fluttering Love,
And make him cower lowly while I soar?
Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,
A heresy and schism,
Foisted into the canon law of love;
No, – wine is only sweet to happy men;
More dismal cares Seize on me unawares,
Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck’d and lived a wrecked life,
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown’d of any weedy-haired gods;
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbag’d meads
Make a lean and lank the starv’d ox while he feeds;
There flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,
And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.
O, for some sunny spell
To dissipate the shadows of this hell!
Say they are gone,-with the new dawning light
Steps forth my lady bright!
O, let me once more rest
My soul upon that dazzling breast!
Let once again these aching arms be plac’d,
The tender gaolers of thy waist!
And let me feel that warm breath here and there
To spread a rapture in my very hair,
O, the sweetness of the pain!
Give me those lips again!
Enough! Enough! It is enough for me
To dream of thee!
– John Keats 1795 – 1821