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Being a literature student, most of my leisure are indulged in reading and of course writing and it has always kept me at ease.
My strong love for prose and poetry begun way long time back, and there is no way I can validate nor compare when it comes to choosing the best writers/writings. Every great author deserves a praise for their skills they possess, not only are they impressive writers but heart touching inspirations too. Since it's World's Poetry Day, I felt I should share my thought on poetry writing :)
Poems from all ages have meticulously captured our heart, the use of the languages and words expressed by historical romantic writers are by far beyond amazement. From classical to modern to western era poets like William Wordsworth, William Blake, Robert Frost, William Shakespeare, T.S Eliot, Christina Rossetti, Percy Bayess Shelley, George Gordon Byron, Samuel Taylor Coleridge etc and the list goes on and on, they have wonderfully contributed in the field of poetry in keeping them much alive and worthy of praise.
Poetry is about being expressive and most of all keeping the pace of touching reader's heart. On this 'World poetry day' I thought I would share 'One' of my favorite poem (I said 'one' of the favorite) a poem by John Keats, famously read and loved by many... known as 'Endymion', In Greek mythology he was an Aeolian mortal loved by tht moon godess Selene who asked Zeus to grant him
ethernal life. in this poem he talk about a thing of beauty bringing joy to people around.
'Endymion' is a classic poem and John keats a supreme writer wrote
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever", just a line and it express everything. Here he is speaking of not just an ordinary thing but an object of beauty that is keen to stay forever and never die. A simple yet a graceful poem talking about beauty on earth that can bring happiness and remove all sadness or any unpleasant atmosphere around.
Read along the poem and enjoy the flawless beauty of language used...
A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever- John Keats
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 band 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.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.
Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
Lovely ain't it?
I feel such beauty in words should be 'Treasured' if not 'Cherished' forever.