It may be Halloween . . .

. . . but it is also the birthday of one hauntingly Romantic poet,

and so in his honor, this excerpt from . . .

A Thing of Beauty (from Endymion)

John Keats

(1795-1821)

    . . . Nor do we merely feel these essences

For one short hour; no, even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,

Her passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us til they become a cheering light

That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,

They always must be with us, or we die.

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Happy Halloween!

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