by John Keats Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine, A forester deep in thy midmost trees, Did last eve ask my promise to refine Some English that might strive thine ear to please. But, Elfin Poet, ’tis impossible For an inhabitant of wintry earth To rise like Phœbus with a golden quill Fire-wing’d and make a morning in his mirth. It is impossible to escape from toil O’ the sudden and receive thy spiriting; The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming; Be with me in the summer days, and I Will for thine honour and his pleasure try. Note: A recitation can be heard here.
- Mark Olival-Bartley
- Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor composition and edit a poetry weekly, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.