O for a beaker full of the warm South!
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen
Much have I travelled in the Scottish rain; And fished by obstinate isles. British clouds do little for The mottoes on sundials.
Nothing propinks like propinquity: Warm Fanny waits next door. Our blood runs hot, but spot by spot, My cough forbids us more.
An antique sun now lures me south; Perhaps my lungs will warm. A difficult life in the London damp Yields to the call of home.
Much have I travell’d in the realms of goldJohn Keats: “On first looking into Chapman’s Homer”
His true Penelope was Flaubert, He fished by obstinate isles; Observed the elegance of Circe’s hair Rather than the mottoes on sundials.