all hallow's eve

Happy Halloween. Today is John Keats' birthday, but because of what is happening right now I can't do him justice. Sorry.

Here is the last poem Keats wrote. It wasn't October, it was February. I can't help thinking of him lying in his sickbed in Rome, knowing he was dying, giving in to the famous despair of his last weeks; it is very uncomfortable thinking right now, but here's his poem.

This Living Hand

This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—

I hold it towards you.

More later.