Art · Nouveau · Ho

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
       See how Aurora throws her fair
       Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
       Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
       The dew bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east
Above an hour since: yet you not dress'd;
       Nay! not so much as out of bed?
       When all the birds have matins said
       And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
       Nay, profanation to keep in,
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
       And sweet as Flora.  Take no care
       For jewels for your gown or hair:
       Fear not; the leaves will strew
       Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept;
       Come and receive them while the light
       Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
       And Titan on the eastern hill
       Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth.   Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
       Made green and trimm'd with trees: see how
       Devotion gives each house a bough
       Or branch: each porch, each door ere this
       An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
       Can such delights be in the street
       And open fields and we not see't?
       Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
       The proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
       A deal of youth, ere this, is come
       Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
       Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream
       Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
       Many a green-gown has been given;
       Many a kiss, both odd and even:
       Many a glance too has been sent
       From out the eye, love's firmament;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying.

Come, let us go while we are in our prime;
And take the harmless folly of the time.
       We shall grow old apace, and die
       Before we know our liberty.
       Our life is short, and our days run
       As fast away as does the sun;
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
       So when or you or I are made
       A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
       All love, all liking, all delight
       Lies drowned with us in endless night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

Yonder comes

Since time so kind

I cannot come every day

Once, twice, thrice

Tomorrow the fox will come

Canst thou love?

Every fool's an April fool
For foolery's in flower.
There's sugar in the salt shaker
And corn oil in the shower.

That heavy breathing call was me
Made to your office phone;
I cling-wrap-trapped the toilet bowl
For you and you alone.

The whoopee cushion sighs my love
Wherever you are seated;
And when you come to share my bed
You'll find yourself shortsheeted.

Oh every fool's an April fool
So take my hand and sing:
For you may hope to spring the trap,
But never trap the Spring.

From Hilaire Belloc's Sonnets of the Month

The winter moon has such a quiet car
That all the winter nights are dumb with rest.
She drives the gradual dark with drooping crest,
And dreams go wandering from her drowsy star.
Because the nights are silent, do not wake:
But there shall tremble through the general earth,
And over you, a quickening and a birth.
The sun is near the hill-tops for your sake.

The latest born of all the days shall creep
To kiss the tender eyelids of the year;
And you shall wake, grown young with perfect sleep,
And smile at the new world, and make it dear
With living murmurs more than dreams are deep.
Silence is dead, my Dawn; the morning's here.

What are the names for Beauty? Who shall praise
God's pledge he can fulfil His creatures' eyes?
Or what strong words of what creative phrase
Determine Beauty's title in the skies?
But I will call you Beauty Personate,
Ambassadorial Beauty, and again
Beauty triumphant, Beauty in the Gate,
Beauty salvation of the souls of men.

For Beauty was not Beauty till you came
And now shall Beauty mean the sign you are;
A Beacon burnt above the Dawn, a flame
Like holy Lucifer the Morning Star,
Who latest hangs in Heaven and is the gem
On all the widowed Night's expectant Diadem.

Behold, my friends, the Costuming Muse hath spoken unto me, and these were the words She whispered:

Are you ready for this?

ART NOUVEAU X-MEN

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