An excess of black bile

[randy_byers]

Ode on Melancholy
by John Keats

NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Comments

[mcjulie.livejournal.com]

Okay, you asked for it...

Ode on a Guinness Pint
(based on "Ode on a Grecian Urn" by John Keats)

Thou still unravish'd bride of drunkenness,
Thou foster-child of slurring and slow talk,
Dublin historical, who helps us express
A bellicose mood, though we can barely walk:
What harp-stringed legend gleams upon thy shape
On glasses, or on bottles, or on cans
In Tavern, from St. James Gate Brewery?

What alcoholics these? What drinking fans?
Our dreary lives we struggle to escape
With stouts and porters. What mad ecstasy!
Some call lagers sweet, but dark stouts
Are sweeter; therefore, ye black pint, pour on.
Not like the Superbowl tastes, impatient louts,
Drawn to the pallid brews that have no taste:
Fair pint, beneath the tap, thou make'st me wait
Thy foam, not ever can it hurried be.
Bold Flavor, never, never shouldst thou change,
Though losing market share to foul Bud Light;
Please do not fade! Do not your fans estrange!
For ever will I love imbibing thee!

Ah, happy, happy pint! that has been made
It says, since seventeen and fifty-nine;
And, happy (I hope) barmaid,
For ever pouring beer, for us divine;
More happy beer! more happy, happy beer!
For ever luscious dark, to be admired;
For ever creamy, praises to be sung;
Night of many pitchers and good cheer,
That leaves a drinker hungover and tired,
A pounding forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the lav'ratr'y?
To porcelain altar, as Mis'ry's wan guest,
Knelt down, these drunkards, nausea in mastr'y,
And all their aching heads against it rest?
What little crowd by taxi or on foot,
Or designated driver shunning ale,
Empties from this pub, as last call's heard?
And, little drunks, home sleeping for the night
Will silent be; and not a pint to sell
'Til next day's evening, and they return

O Graceful shape! Fairly brewed! with barley
Roasted malt, and yeast and flow'ry hops,
With nitrous pull and top of white foam,
Thou, alcohol, dost tease us out of thought.
Forget eternity: Cool stout and Ale!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou must remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to all who seek your taste.
Beer is truth, truth beer,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

[randy-byers.livejournal.com]

I'll drink to that! To poetry, beer, and poetry about beer! Is that one yours?

[mcjulie.livejournal.com]

Yeah, guilty as charged.

[randy-byers.livejournal.com]

I'm impressed!

[mcjulie.livejournal.com]

Thanks! It was fun, I felt like the Weird Al of romantic poetry.