Friday, February 17, 2012

whispers of the household gods

Author's Note:
Dear Keats,

Why are you so great?


Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there

Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;

The stars look very cold about the sky,

And I have many miles on foot to fare.

Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,

Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair:

For I am brimfull of the friendliness

That in a little cottage I have found;

Of fair-hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress,

And all his love for gentle Lycid drown’d;

Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown’d.

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