About my blog about poetry yesterday. Sorry about the spelling errors. I thought I had caught them all. Sigh. I didn’t.
I realize I am back in years gone by with my love of poetry from Victorian times. Such a wonderful way with words so many poets had. John Keats’ ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
“Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird, No hungry generations (tread thee down.) The voice I hear this passing night was heard, In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-dame song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home, She stood in tears among the alien corn; The same that of-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.”
I cannot read those words but feel for Ruth, “sick for home, She stood in tears among the alien corn.”
I have lived away from home and missed friends and family. I have lived across seas. Like homesick Ruth, I have lived through the pain. Having memories to treasure is a blessing. Lucky me, I still have a good memory, short and long term. Now that is a blessing.
The light is darkening outside my window. Time to turn on the lights and pick up the book I’m reading. Time stands still when I am deeply involved in a story.
“Tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps on this petty pace from day to day.” Oops I didn’t mean to start on Shakespeare.