Bombadil Publishing

This is last Friday's blog entry; it's rather late as I have been short of words lately. Instead of rambling at length about kayaks and moon bases and other trivial subjects, I give you some words by the masterful John Keats, who succumbed to tuberculosis at the age of twenty-five and whose epitaph reads "Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water."

On leaving some Friends at an Early Hour

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heap’d up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when ’tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
And let there glide by many a pearly car,
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
And as it reaches each delicious ending,
Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
For what a height my spirit is contending!
’Tis not content so soon to be alone.

John Keats (1795 - 1821)