Classic and Contemporary Poetry
COOL REFLECTIONS DURING A MIDSUMMER WALK, by ROBERT SOUTHEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: O spare me -- spare me, phoebus! If, indeed Last Line: Nymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer. Subject(s): Beauty; Happiness; Mythology - Classical; Nature - Religious Aspects; Paganism & Pagans; Prayer; Summer; Joy; Delight | ||||||||
O spare mespare me, Phœbus! if, indeed, Thou hast not let another Phaeton Drive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car; Mercy! I melt! I melt! no treeno bush, No shelter! not a breath of stirring air East, west, or north, or south! dear god of day, Put on thy night-cap!crop thy locks of light, And be in the fashion! turn thy back upon us, And let thy beams flow upward! make it night Instead of noon! one little miracle, In pity, gentle Phœbus! What a joy, Oh, what a joy to be a seal and flounder, On an ice-island! or to have a den With the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow! It were a comfort to shake hands with death He has a rare cold hand! to wrap one's self In the gift shirt Deianeira sent, Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keep The sun off,or toast cheese for Beelzebub, That were a cool employment to this journey Along a road whose white intensity Would now make platina uncongelable, Like quicksilver. Were it midnight, I should walk Self-lanthorn'd, saturate with sun-beams. Jove! O gentle Jove! have mercy, and once more Kick that obdurate Phœbus out of heaven. Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roars For cardimum, and drinks down peppermint, Making what's left as precious as Tokay. Send Mercury to salivate the sky Till it dissolves in rain. O gentle Jove! But some such little kindness to a wretch Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat Who swells with calorique as if a Prester Had leavened every limb with poison-yeast Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings, And fan me, and I will build temples to thee And turn true pagan. Not a cloud nor breeze O you most heathen deities! if ever My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them That hath resolved itself into a dew), I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Most vile Phœbus, Set me a Persian sun-idolater Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him With no inquisitorial argument But thy own fires. Now woe be to me, wretch, That I was in a heretic country born! Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach, And burn away the calx of their offences In that great purgatory crucible, Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion! I am made a copper-Indian of already. And if no kindly cloud will parasol me, My very cellular membrane will be changed I shall be negrofied. A brook! a brook! Oh what a sweet cool sound! 'Tis very nectar! It runs like life through every strengthen'd limb Nymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STUDY OF HAPPINESS by KENNETH KOCH SO MUCH HAPPINESS by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE CROWD CONDITIONS by JOHN ASHBERY I WILL NOT BE CLAIMED by MARVIN BELL THE BOOK OF THE DEAD MAN (#21): 1. ABOUT THE DEAD MAN'S HAPPINESS by MARVIN BELL BISHOP BRUNO by ROBERT SOUTHEY |
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