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wellinghallSeason of cold and languid joylessness,
With never-rising, ever-setting sun;
I cannot praise thee, and I cannot bless
The time from now till February is done;
When colds abound, and everyone shall sneeze,
And cough and lie in sickness with a sore
And aching head, with pains from all the hells.
And we go back to work or school once more,
And still more, and who any goodness sees
(Except John Keats) in sorrow, cold, disease,
And autumn, when all homes are prison cells?
http://dasliedvondererde.deviantart.com/art/A-Parody-of-Keats-42493375
With never-rising, ever-setting sun;
I cannot praise thee, and I cannot bless
The time from now till February is done;
When colds abound, and everyone shall sneeze,
And cough and lie in sickness with a sore
And aching head, with pains from all the hells.
And we go back to work or school once more,
And still more, and who any goodness sees
(Except John Keats) in sorrow, cold, disease,
And autumn, when all homes are prison cells?
http://dasliedvondererde.deviantart.com/art/A-Parody-of-Keats-42493375
