<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535545" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Because They Rhyme They Live, Not I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen <br>That am not yet a glorious denizen <br>Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer, <br>Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, <br>Smoothed for intoxication by the breath <br>Of flowering bays, that I may die a death...' </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> - John Keats, 'Sleep and Poetry</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I suppose it is the late, or soon to be, poet's lot to jot one <br>for daffodils. At least one. This is mine, a last will to verse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But first, I take a pill before dying, I mean, <br>its meager meal, yellow sun on a jaundiced plate. <br>'Consumption' is the word I want. I've got that, <br>and few breaths left and a flat voice to tell it in. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'The daffodils were yellow as the sun.' <br>So lay down thy pen. Ungrasp! I say. <br>An olden voice pulls at bruised skin. <br>I grow thin. And gasp. I grow thin as winter air. <br>I'll not see them rise again from bulbs perennially.<br>Not me, annulled in this season of the lung <br>though each breath mimics leaven, assumes <br>Eternity's aspirations, but...(where was I?) ...<br>not me, not long for my tongue to sing. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Meanwhile, bright petaled mouths flaunt, gape, <br>gulp in early spring, whereas, I flop here, leaden, <br>landed, banked, a carp brought to heel from bluer <br>lake pulling gills swallowing nothing that can sustain, <br>or not much. I sympathize, yes, then down another <br>pill for more air to clutch, breath an almost perennial <br>memory of last spring when it first edged me in, <br>clipped my singing short, when seasonal flowers so <br>easily rhymed but in a minor wheeze for a minor voice. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fine then. Some one, some other poet write a<br>line for when I've gone under forfeiting all final drafts.<br>Those yard yellows spoon dirt to a useless <br>feeding sun, useless because I'm soon done in.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'd do the same for you, Mr. Keats, in a soft, bleating tone of voice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535545" data-title="Because They Rhyme They Live, Not I de Warren Falcon" data-description="'O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen That am not yet a glorious denizen Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer, Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, Smoothed for intoxication by the breath Of flowering bays, that I may die a death....."></div> </div> </div>

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