A Halloween Haunting

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We are not sure of sorrow.

And joy was never sure.

Today will die tomorrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure.

And Love, grown faint and fretful,

With lips but half regretful

Sighs, with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure. 

From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving,

Whatever gods there be

That no life lives forever;

That dead men rise up never;

that even the weariest river,

winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then sun nor star shall waken,

Nor any change of light:

Nor sound of waters shaken

Nor any sound or sight:

Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,

Nor days or things diurnal;

Only the sleep eternal

In an eternal night. 
 
Charles Algernon Swinburne, The Garden Of Proserpine, 1866

This is about a third of this startling poem.  It has always sounded to me like an art nouveau stained glass piece by Mucha.  Well, that is today's sunshine and happiness from everybody's favorite unbalanced anthro rabbit.  Well, except Bugs.  He is just the best!


What's up Doc, indeed.
 
 

 

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