Saturday, December 15, 2012

Eli Likes Sheep



Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
But no thermometer in sight
That medieval Yu-le

"Hither, page, and stand by me
To confirm my telling
That peasant's from the IPCC
Why is he near my dwelling?"
"Sire, he lives at your expense
Up on the UN mountain
Right against the Red Cross fence
By Saint Agnes' fountain."

" On deer flesh and blood red wine
His hearth with logs aquivver
I wish that I could with him dine
Will you send me thither ?"
Page and monarch forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather

"Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer."
"Mark my words, page uninformed,
Tread thou forward boldly
Medieval nights are toasty warm
How canst thou freezeth coldly?"

In his master's steps he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
And soon lay dead, poor frozen sod
For the Saint on furs had stinted
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Fail thee not to bless the poor
But look first to their dressing

EliRabett said...


willard said...

Every reader loves the way he tells off
the sun, shouting busy old fool
into the English skies even though they
were likely cloudy on that seventeenth-century morning.

And it’s a pleasure to spend this sunny day
pacing the carpet and repeating the words,
feeling the syllables lock into rows
until I can stand and declare,
the book held closed by my side,
that hours, days, and months are but the rags of time.

But after a few steps into stanza number two,
wherein the sun is blinded by his mistress’s eyes,
I can feel the first one begin to fade
like sky-written letters on a windy day.

And by the time I have taken in the third,
the second is likewise gone, a blown-out candle now,
a wavering line of acrid smoke.

So it’s not until I leave the house
and walk three times around this hidden lake
that the poem begins to show
any interest in walking by my side.

Then, after my circling,
better than the courteous dominion
of her being all states and him all princes,

better than love’s power to shrink
the wide world to the size of a bedchamber,

and better even than the compression
of all that into the rooms of these three stanzas
is how, after hours stepping up and down the poem,
testing the plank of every line,
it goes with me now, contracted into a little spot within.

**Memorizing “The Sun Rising” by John Donne**, by Billy Collins

Aaron said...

What is not to love about sheep art?


And they are delicious, and good for albedo too:

Put some out to safely graze on your green roof today !

Jeffrey Davis said...

My favorite letter from the early 70s National Lampoon.

(from memory)

Do you remember those sheep they found dead in Utah*? Well, they were naked!


*there was, allegedly, a nerve gas accident out in the wilds of Utah which left dead sheep in its wake. Probably the source for the imagery of the same in Close Encounters.

Anonymous said...