|Girl with Blue Ribbon - Pierre Auguste Renoir (1841-1919)|
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.
~ John Keats (1795-1821)
|John Keats (1795-1821)|
He's been getting a workout lately! :)
The poetry of earth is never dead:ReplyDelete
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
John Keats, December 30, 1816.
I thought that was YEATS, Thersites.ReplyDelete
But this Keats was chosen more to honor Renoir today. Like Pierre Auguste, himself, I've always been a sucker for beautiful redheads.
I've often wondered, by the way,
If YEATS is pronounced YATES.
Should KEATS be said as KATES? ;-)
...and meats pronounced...mates?ReplyDelete
Happy Halloween Sugar Hangover Day!
So grateful for your friendship!
When I was a very small girl, my Irish mother told me that the red in my hair meant I was a witch. She meant it in a good way. The best way. My hair is dark brown but in the sunlight, when I see auburn highlights, I think of her.
There's a vaccine for Gingervitus... ;)ReplyDelete
Andie! I am So glad to see you back. I was going to say "in action," but I know darned well you've never spent an idle moment in your life. That creative urge can really keep us hoppin,' can't it? ;-)ReplyDelete
Inward, Onward and Upward!
No place else to go but down, and we don't want that no matter WHt the rest of the folks are doing, right?
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.ReplyDelete
I don't suppose that you've seen the movie "The Monuments Men"? I just watched it. It featured your Renoir.ReplyDelete
Speaking of beauty and joy forever...ReplyDelete
The Oliphant Man saidReplyDelete
That flashy picture like all of Remir's overrated output is vulgar, insipid, and an insult to women everywhere. Renoir was obvious;y a misodjinyst, and probably a closet gay.
Edvard Much showed more truth in a single one of his brushstrokes than this boozhois French hack did in any of his complete paintings.