It feels like a day for poetry

I suddenly feel like starting a Sunday off with poetry bodes well for the day.

For the fun of it.
The Inchcape Rock by R. Southey
(Only took one stanza from it)
He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing,
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rovers mirth was wickedness.

And then something very appropriate for the season. I love this poem not only because I get so excited whenever I read the first lines, as I did in class so many years ago but because of the memories it conjures. I had the best year of my schooling career in matric at Brackenfell High School.


Ode to Autumn by John Keats
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-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed 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'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

And one of my top 10 favourites of course: 

 The Queen' by Pablo Neruda

I have named you queen.
There are taller than you, taller.
There are purer than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.
But you are the queen.


When you go through the streets
No one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
At the carpet of red gold
That you tread as you pass,
The nonexistent carpet.


And when you appear
All the rivers sound
In my body, bells
Shake the sky,
And a hymn fills the world.


Only you and I,
Only you and I, my love,
Listen to me.


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