July 01, 2013

A London Summer #1

And so starts a new season and a new photo series with some of my ever favourite poems and my own shots.

A London Summer
Roses in London
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist 

    Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 
    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 globed 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. 
Ode on Melancholy, John Keats

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