Little Bohemians.

I have always been a dreamer. I have always thought to the future and imagined a better world, ways to better myself and ways to better my surroundings.

With Spring well and truly here and it is such an honour to wander around and see all the new life that is forming in the gardens and the nests of the suburban environment. I can see the attitudes changing of the city slickers as they embrace the sunshine.

And with this, I am forced to reevaluate the dream. I float around this space. If I am always looking to the future, how will I ever be happy with the present? I am growing tired of the search, because I fear I may almost be content. But how to embrace something that this hyperactive mind has never known?

So for Spring, I want to be content and happy with the here and now. I want to know how to relax and stop living as if I will die tomorrow, because I have time. Precious, beautiful time.

For Spring, all I want is to love and be loved.

Little bohemians.

These photos are from my garden, on a stormy, spring day.

 

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.