Happy big 400 Milton!

I wandered over to the English department for cake this afternoon. (Silly enough, it was my breakfast; I stayed up until 4:30 a.m. last night).

Anyway, today was Milton's birthday party!

I love odd-English types. We will come up with any reason to eat desserts. (Check the calendar; whose birthday is it tomorrow!?) Well, that and Milton was a pretty exquisite poet. Some of his lines are as delicious as chocolate cake, yet I suppose it's an acquired taste. We ate cake and sat around listening to people read small portions of their favorite verses. Here at the Harvard of the Midwest (snicker, snicker, ha ha) we like things a little more comfortable. So, we sat in the warm lounge upstairs with our snacks and beverages.

At real Harvard this morning they stood outside in the cold at 7:00 a.m. reading "On the Morning of Christ's Nativity." --Yeah, we're definitely a little softer around here. Although, we did read for an hour. Also I got to talk to a former student and a former professor, chit-chatting about dissertation stuff. I'm happy I went. I was contemplating remaining antisocial at home.

Here's "Sonnet 7" that we read today about lost youth (sigh) and the elusive employment of fleeting talent (sigh, sigh again). Excepting the cake, it brings to mind the last seven years:

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endueth.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which time leads me, and the will of heaven:
All is, if I have grace to use it so
As ever in my great task-master's eye.

Well, and excepting the manhood bit, of course. Here is a reading of this poem I found online. (You really have to look at it). I think my favorite part is the analysis: "He points out that he has not grown to be a man because 'no bud or blossom shew'th.' 'Bud,' in my opinion, refers to facial hair and 'blossom' to blossoming pecks or muscles."

It's also entertaining that "Dr. Spork" at the end of the comments mentions the entire reading is wrong. Anyway, so much for people reading Milton.

I'll leave you with my favorite lines from "Il Penseroso":

And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture displayed,
Softly on my eyelids laid.
And as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars' massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced choir below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes.