Chat Room
05-16-2009, 07:54 PM
Oh dear, now you triggered me too, I started looking over my old poems... Just for your amusement, here's a verse that I attempted to write on the Keatsian ode form. It's trite and fake old-English, but what choice have we but to follow the whispers of our muse..
:hd:
Ode to Keats
A dying candle through the Claret haze,
Beyond its time and age forever shines
Into our hearts; relived Achaean grace,
And beauty in the truth of muséd rhymes.
To whispers flowing down from Arcady,
Which all the secrets of thy song embower,
Fit with centuries we listen still
In hope, to touch that Muse of poesy;
Perchance, to relish in that faery power,
And seize upon the echoes of thy quill.
A poet’s soul had been divinely tilled,
But were by this ungodly world denied
It’s lease; the cup of life had passed, and spilled.
From here, but death was fit to be his bride:
“Let Charon sound his horn! Consumèd now,
I long to travel yonder rivulet.â€
For lines unwrit, his dying hand atoned,
As ‘round he turned to make an awkward bow
From Lethe’s shore, of worldly woes disowned;
And drift among the stars that never set.
But ever will thy spirit highly roam
Where ne’er a woe did cloud the orbèd sun
Nor dim the moon; for thou hast made thine home
Among the fields of fair Elysium.
And when upon thy testament we dwell,
Across the ages past, a darkling sings
A ditty from beyond those high domains,
In warbled memory of une dame belle.
The principle of beauty in all things,
Your everlasting gift to us remains.
:hd:
Ode to Keats
A dying candle through the Claret haze,
Beyond its time and age forever shines
Into our hearts; relived Achaean grace,
And beauty in the truth of muséd rhymes.
To whispers flowing down from Arcady,
Which all the secrets of thy song embower,
Fit with centuries we listen still
In hope, to touch that Muse of poesy;
Perchance, to relish in that faery power,
And seize upon the echoes of thy quill.
A poet’s soul had been divinely tilled,
But were by this ungodly world denied
It’s lease; the cup of life had passed, and spilled.
From here, but death was fit to be his bride:
“Let Charon sound his horn! Consumèd now,
I long to travel yonder rivulet.â€
For lines unwrit, his dying hand atoned,
As ‘round he turned to make an awkward bow
From Lethe’s shore, of worldly woes disowned;
And drift among the stars that never set.
But ever will thy spirit highly roam
Where ne’er a woe did cloud the orbèd sun
Nor dim the moon; for thou hast made thine home
Among the fields of fair Elysium.
And when upon thy testament we dwell,
Across the ages past, a darkling sings
A ditty from beyond those high domains,
In warbled memory of une dame belle.
The principle of beauty in all things,
Your everlasting gift to us remains.