Go on, guess.
Raindrops on roses?
Whiskers on kittens?
Bright Copper kettles and warm woolen mittens?
Silver white winters that melt into springs?
No, No, No, No.
I think her exact words were:
If you die tom, would you like to be buried?
At first, I was shocked at her blatant indifference towards my passing.
"'If I died tomorrow...'?" I muttered to myself angrily. "'If I died tomorrow...'!? What is this? Some sort of joke? How dare she be so casual about me dying! Does she think MM's grow on trees or what? I'm sure my death merits more respect and importance than that! 'If you died tomorrow...' I show her dying. Just wait till I see her in college tomorrow. Phthbah!"
As much as I didnt want to think about the gruesome thought of my own death, I had to.
Because I was trying not to. :-|
I found out what I'd always known I suppose.
I would not like to be buried or cremated or by eaten by vultures.
But since cremation is what they do in our family, I guess i'd go for that. I don't really care actually. I mean, I'd be dead anyway.
And with that unpleasant thought, I turned my mind away from my own death, and focused instead, on Zz's answer.
Apparently, she'd like to be in an urn.
Yes, you read right, in an urn.
Specifically, in a beautiful urn.
Anyhou (which I've been saying a lot thanks to PS), the urn reminded me of a poem we had last semester that I rather liked:
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN
By John Keats
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
1820
Though I dont particularly agree on the the last two lines, I do like the poem.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Those are my favourite lines. Poor guy. he was depressed when he wrote this. Felt it'd be better to be on the urn instead. Well, at least he wasnt thinking of being in it, like Zz.
The reason why this poor gentleman was depressed, is because his wife'd left him. Poor chap. Failed marriage. Her name ws Anne I think. She ran off with someone. I distinctly remember my teacher saying that.
I could of course, be completely mistaken. This could be information on one of the other 5 billion poets whose work we had to study last sem.
I could be utterly wrong and have told you the life history of George Herbert or John Dryden or someone.
But I'm pretty sure that it was a failed marriage that Keats had.
No comments:
Post a Comment