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The Human Seasons

FOUR Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring’s honey’d cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

poem by John Keats from The Poetical Works of John Keats (1884)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Bag Of Goodies

m&m's candy
an american classic
and halloween treat

poem by Chris Bowen
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The poet: A blood donor at the hospital of words.

classic aphorism by Lucian Blaga from The Élan of the Island (1977), translated by Dan Costinaş
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The Ballad of Dead Ladies (Ballade des dames du temps jadis)

Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere--
She whose beauty was more than human?--
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Where's Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From Love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine?--
But where are the snows of yester-year?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden--

[...] Read more

poem by François Villon from The Testament (1461), translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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A Good Woman

Must be a good woman
Who darns his holed socks
Irons his heavily starched trousers
Makes his bed more comely

A good woman who agrees
When he is pricked with salt
Eats vinegar with his cornflakes
Must be

A good woman who sleeps beside him
With the sugar plum sweetest dreams
Awakens with the surprise of his leaving
Must be

A good woman who tries and cries
Does not succeed except in housebreaking
When all walls of a room
Have been washed clean of him.

poem by Marina Gipps
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Sonnet 151

Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove;
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason.
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love—flesh stays no father reason,
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize—proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
  No want of conscience hold it that I call
  Her "love" for whose dear love I rise and fall.

poem by William Shakespeare from Sonnets (1609)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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