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
- Mark Olival-Bartley teaches English, tutors composition, trains teachers, and advises a literary circle. He studied applied linguistics at Hawaii Pacific University, attaining B.A. and M.A. degrees in TESOL, and poetry at the City College of New York. He is now anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson’s sonnets for his dissertation at LMU Munich’s Department of English and American Studies, where also he edits a poetry weekly. His poems and translations have appeared in journals on both sides of the Atlantic. He is the resident poet at EcoHealth, where his science-themed verse is regularly featured, and a senior copyeditor of Review of International American Studies.