|Ode on the 10:34 Shuttle
By Caroline PicardThou still 10:34 shuttle,
Thou magic shuttle of sororities and Kellogg students,
Surly bus driver, who canst thus express
His severe disdain for forgetting your Wildcard.
What drunken tales haunt thy seats
Of poorly conceived mixer themes
and awkward hookups, or of both,
In Allison or the frat house?
What men or frat stars are these? What maidens put out?
What mad pursuit? What to turn down for?
What pregames and shots? What wild sexcapade?
Heard plans are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye freshman, venture on;
Not to the group text, but, more personal
Door text to the potential hookup of tonight:
Fair youth, on the dancefloor, thou canst not leave
Thy moves, nor ever can that twerk be legal;
Bold Hookup, never, never, canst thou give an OTPHJ.
Though locking down that biddy yet, do not grieve;
She cannot resist, though thou hast not thy charm,
For ever wilt thou have awkward exchanges, and she be mortified!
Ah, drunk, drunk, pledges! that cannot clean
Sticky floors, nor ever mix a drink correctly;
And, drunk senior, unwearied,
For ever chugging Natties for ever lukewarm;
More drunk love! More drunk, drunk love!
For ever awkward and still to be enjoy’d
For ever hungover, and for ever young;
All experiencing teenage lust far too strong,
That leaves a heart dysfunctional and bitter,
A burning STD, and a pounding hangover.
Who are these coming to the party?
To what room, O frat star,
Lead’st thou that girl stumbling in her heels,
And all of her cleavage with body glitter drest?
What frat house basement or attic,
Or off-campus apartment with stupid nickname,
Is full of the under-aged, the thirsty sophomores?
And, frat house, thy dance floor for evermore
Will dubstep be; and not a word to be heard
Why thou art crowded, can e’er rage.
O Basement pillars! Wet floors! with Sperrys
Of try-hard men and women overdressed,
With foamy kegs and the scent of weed;
Thou, drunken hookup, dost tease us out of good judgment
As doth fraternity: Tappa Keg!
When old age shall this generation reach,
Though shalt remember, in the midst of other regret
Than ours, a bus driver to a sorority girl, to whom thou say’st
“Foster is the last stop, last stop Foster—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
|Ode on a Grecian Urn
By John KeatsThou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts 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.”