Contemporary Romanticism

If Life Gives You Lemons, Make

JENNIFER PERRINE

your mouth into a trough, a spout
from which that sour sauce will pour,
pulp and spittle swimming down your
chin, eyes pinched shut, each acid thought

welling under the tongue. Thin slice
of pain wedged on the salty rim
of your face, let its tart grace skim
your glass neat: no sugar, no ice

to temper this bite, this slick burst
that cankers your lips. Life gives you
lemons: cut your teeth on their rinds,

tear them with gusto, slake your thirst
with their slavering, jaundiced juice,
swallow hard, leave no seeds behind.

To me, this poem urges readers to accept the things that happen in life. This is a play on the phrase "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade" however, the message is to drink down the sour taste.

Romanticism

The main idea of romanticism consists of a deeply rooted feeling of subjectivity, grandeur and everything in nature. It became a stark contrast to the romantic notion of medieval times where adventure and romance flourished. I chose two writers and two poems that best personify romanticism during two different times within the period. The first poem, "Ode to a Grecian Urn" was written by John Keates, a man who came to prominence in the late 19th century. My next selection "Lines Written in Early Spring," by William Wordsworth patterns the exaltation of nature.

Habib brings up a good point that Romanticism responded to the elitist nature of the enlightenment period. To illustrate the scope and reach that romanticism had, every major belief or movement developed during the 1830s and 40s was spawned from romanticism. Habib states that it was during this time that the "major upheavals such as the French Revolution, the Industrial Revolution, and the revolutions of 1830 and 1848, along with the growth of nationalism, impelled the bourgeois classes toward political, economic, cultural, and ideological hegemony."

Lines Written in Early Spring - William Wordsworth

          I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
         While in a grove I sate reclined,
         In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
         Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

         To her fair works did Nature link
         The human soul that through me ran;
         And much it grieved my heart to think
         What man has made of man.

         Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
         The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;                         10
         And 'tis my faith that every flower
         Enjoys the air it breathes.

         The birds around me hopped and played,
         Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
         But the least motion which they made
         It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

         The budding twigs spread out their fan,
         To catch the breezy air;
         And I must think, do all I can,
         That there was pleasure there.                              20

         If this belief from heaven be sent,
         If such be Nature's holy plan,
         Have I not reason to lament
         What man has made of man?

Ode to a Grecian Urn - John Keats

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thou express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.