A Thing of Beauty
Whether we pick up the paper, log on to the internet, or turn on our radios and television sets, we are constantly bombarded with images of killings, bombings, war, and terror. We can become so saturated and overwhelmed with these images that we forget there is still much good and much beauty in our world and universe. It is important that we turn to literature, music, the arts, and even nature itself to find beauty, assurance, and tranquility in this violence-ridden world.
When I become filled with dread and hopelessness, I like to turn to the great poets. I have a particular affinity to the poetry of John Keats. He had the uncanny ability to make a link between the beauty of nature and the needs of the human soul.
We are about to enter the transition between the hot, lazy days of summer and the cool beauty of autumn. This is a time of year when the late summer flowers such as Zinnias, Geraniums, and Chrysanthemums are in full show. Soon the leaves will turn to flaming yellows and reds. It is a time when we can again become aware of the beauty all around us. Let me share one of John Keats' poems with you:
Copyright © Jay D Weaver - August 30, 2003
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A Flowery Hand to Bind Us to the Earth
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A THING OF BEAUTY
From "Endymion"
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, On every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery hand to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
- John Keats 1795-1821
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