Posts Tagged ‘John Keats’

Much have I pined in the paperwork,
And many accounts and books tallied;
Round many expense accounts have I rallied
And found how Corporate heads work.
Oft of one name in particular I shirk
To cite among many follies in my work:
Yet did I never breathe or e’en bark
Till I saw Madoff scheme take off sky-high:
Then felt I like some stupid pen-pusher
Wading through worthless assets rated high:
My eyes ever on entries and number
Must keep my judgment suspended-fie!
Work is worship: but a lean purse, my boon
I guess Madoff has his god of Mammon

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John Keats (1795-1821)
Poet of whom Mathew Arnold said thus:’Keats is with Shakespeare.’Rightly so. Since Shakespeare none had written as richly sensuous as Keats.

Keats used to write snatches of poems as it occurred to him on any paper on hand which he tucked away as some book-marker for later. By this manner he had lost many verses either because the poetic inspiration had eased or by forgetfulness. In the spring of 1819 a nightingale had built her nest near his friend Charles Brown’s house. Keats who was very observant of these things once heard the nightingale sing and was captivated. One morning he took his chair from the breakfast table to the plot of grass under a plum tree and sat there for a couple of hours. When he went into the house again he had the rough draft of the Ode in so many scraps of papers. Because of his friends persuasion he went over the verses till he had put them in its proper form. It has since become one of the greatest poems ever penned in English language.
30th Dec.1816.
while at the house of Leigh Hunt ,who,the talks having turned upon crickets -the cheerful little grasshopper of the fireside’-proposed to Keats that they should each write a sonnet on the double theme. Hunt was fond of such friendly competition. When Keats produced in a shorter time, an infinitely better sonnet than his own, Cowden Clarke, the only other person present, recorded the unalloyed pleasure in his friend’s triumph. ‘The poetry of earth is never dead:…’
John Keats gave up medicine for the poetic muse. One night around eleven o’clock he came to his friend Brown’s house. He was feverish and in an excitable state. At his friend’s request he took to bed. He coughed a little and a drop of blood fell on the sheet. A little later when his friend went check if he was alright found him examining the sheet. ‘Bring me the candle, Brown, and let me see this blood.’
After examining it he announced with a calmness,which was all the more striking, he said,’ I know the color of that blood; it is arterial blood. I cannot be deceived in that color; that drop of blood is my death warrant- I must die.

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