you never can begin to live until you dare to die...

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Honor to the archer, keen!

Art- Lorene Andrews


Keats wrote this poem in response to Reynolds' piece (see below... =D) and it struck me as having a tone much more melancholy than Reynolds.'





Ophie says, over my shoulder, "Of course Keats was melancholy." Figures.





Personally, Reynolds' is my favorite.





No! those days are gone away,


And their hours are old and gray,


And their minutes buried all


Under the down-trodden pall


Ofthe leaves of many years:


Many times have winter's shears,


Frozen North, and chilling East,


Sounded tempests to the feast


Of the forest's whispering fleeces,


Since men knew nor rent nor leases.


No, the bugle sounds no more,


And the twanging bow no more;


Silent is the ivory shrill


Past the heath and up the hill;


There is no mid-forest laugh,


Where lone Echo gives the half


To some wight, amaz'd to hear


Jesting, deep in forest drear.


On the fairest time of June


You may go, with sun or moon,


Or the seven stars to light you,


Or the polar ray to right you;


But you never may behold


Little John, or Robin bold;


Never one, of all the clan,


Thrumming on an empty can


Some old hunting ditty, while


He doth his green way beguile


To fair hostess Merriment,


Down beside the pasture Trent;


For he left the merry tale,


Messenger for spicy ale.


Gone, the merry morris din;


Gone, the song of Gamelyn;


Gone, the tough-belted outlaw


Idling in the "grene shawe";


All are gone away and past!


And if Robin should be cast


Sudden from his turfed grave,


And if Marian should have


Once again her forest days,


She would weep, and he would craze:


He would swear, for all his oaks,


Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,


Have rotted on the briny seas;


She would weep that her wild bees


Sang not to her--strange! that honey


Can't be got without hard money!


So it is; yet let us sing


Honour to the old bow-string!


Honour to the bugle-horn!


Honour to the woods unshorn!


Honour to the Lincoln green!


Honour to the archer keen!


Honour to tight little John,


And the horse he rode upon!


Honour to bold Robin Hood,

Sleeping in the underwood!


Honour to maid Marian,

And to all the Sherwood clan!


Though their days have hurried by


Let us two a burden try.

Sniff. More tomorrow...