Sometimes the Deipnon is just a little too far away to wait for until you can clean out your fridge, sort out your financials and clean the house top to bottom. Today, I'm cleaning, so I leave you with a poetry post. Regular blogging will resume tomorrow.

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 
Even unto thine own soft-conched ear: 
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 
The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? 
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, 
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied: 
'Mid hush'd cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, 
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; 
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, 
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 
The winged boy I knew; 
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? 
His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far 
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! 
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, 
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; 
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast nonea, 
Nor altar heap'd with flowers; 
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 
Upon the midnight hours; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 
From chain-swung censer teeming; 
No shrine, no globe, no oracle, no heat 
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows, 
Too, too late for the fond believing lyte, 
When holy were the haunted forest boughs, 
Holy the air, the water, and the fire; 
Yet even in these days so far retir'd 
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 
Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 
Upon the midnight hours; 
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 
From swinged censer teeming; 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind, 
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, 
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: 
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees 
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, 
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: 
And there shall be for thee all soft delight 
That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 
To let the warm Love in!

-- John Keats - Ode to Psyche

This is one of my favorite poems, and my favorite of Keats. The imagery in the words is fantastic and always makes me want to be a better practitioner, priestess human being. When I was younger, me and my mother visited Rome for a few days. Keats lived there and we visited his house. It was actually my only mandatory stop for us that vacation. It was a beautiful house which was no longer a home. There were glass cases with his work and items he'd owned. Still, it was a wonderful visit and I bought a bundle of poems as a keepsake. This poem is in there and I've read it often. I've also recited it for the Gods plenty a time throughout the years. I hope you enjoy the poem as I do. For a detailed explanation of the poem, go here.