maandag, november 01, 2004

Many Happy Returns

Many thanks to the very capable Shelby Long for his insights on the World Chess Championship and for filling in for the Desultory Turgescence staff whilst the Home Offices were in the process of moving from Location A to Location B. Suffice it to say that Inberrow is sating the palate quite nicely.

In our absence, America has inched closer daily to the final countdown of the election which will likely have no forseeable end and though true that much bile has crept up with the round-the-clock advertising assaults and the insults of lies and distortions of both candidates, we're saving the usual political sarcasm and assaults for tomorrow, or as you Earthlings like to call it, Election Day.

In the interim, whilst sweeping up and setting up, enjoy this Keats poem which fills in nicely around the edges for this time of year:


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-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd 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-brimm'd their clammy cells.

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-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd 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 cyder-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 red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

--John Keats

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