Snow, Valentines, and Sonnets

I woke this morning to the shrill voices of my younger siblings, who had decided to fulfill a three-generations-old family tradition by racing around the house, in shorts, barefoot, through a foot of snow.

"Ah," I said to myself, "it's going to be one of those days." Then I grinned into my pillow.

It's almost Valentine's Day, and last night PHC indulged in one of their ASE wars---this one a sonnet cycle, which pleased me to no end. The Domina kicked it off with a reference to the old days, when Kristin S. would always announce a snowfall, and Anthony C. would always reply with a marriage proposal:

Sonnet in Mourning of That Which in Similar Circumstances We Possessed
Dedicated to all you who understand.

Ere since the rising of this morning's sun
Until the daylight fled from out this place,
That weather cold erasing every trace
Of mud and fungus which our lake be-scum
Has fallen firmly, bringing mirth and fun
To all of us who linger on the face
Of this collegiate campus and would race
To at each other fling and never shun.

But all this day our email boxes lacked
A message spreading forth this snowy joy:
Perhaps the gentlemen were working hard
And did not think as past the hours backed;
Perhaps the girls eschewed it as a ploy.
But IT IS SNOWING! --and grounds, not skies, are starred.

-- Carolyn

Verse in Perpetuation of the Ancient Custom

O Lady fair, of Gloriana's court
Alone who sends the weather's mild report;
The Earth, dight all in snowy mantle white
Has shone to th'envy of the stars above
and Cupid's eye hast blinded full this night
So that he's shot his feather'd bolt of love
Amiss, and wandering from its destined mark
Hath smote my wo'ful heart with such a stroke
That would-be lovers oughteth to remark,
And ne'er Love's interfering hence provoke.
But singeth now my heart in music sweet
Compelling me this burden to repeat
Disdaining Caution's cry of subtlety
-Carolyn Thompson, will you marry me?

-Peter C. S.

Peter--

Though sensible I am of the honor thus incurred,
I must refuse you firmly, attaching just a word
To the effect that when he rights his aim,
Cupid learns to rightly spell my name.

Carolyn

To the Young Men: To Make Much of Time *

While flurried snow past window-panes comes whirling,
Inside the flurried e-mails come and go,
With “Look! It’s snowing!”--then, the swift flakes skirling,
A swift proposal--and its answer, “NO!”
Alas! Mistyping brought down this young courtier,
Before he even had begun to court;
And if he would escape the ominous forty or
More years (unwed), to measures must resort.

And yet, this bard must gently beg to fill in
The other dapper lads, that other girls
Go yet without proposals--these gems, these pearls
Are likewise beautiful--and some more willin’.

But one last warning: lest a sudden quelling
Would dash your fond desire... first, check your spelling.

Jonathan Kanary

Dear Lord, forgive these students, we
Who try to write in poetry.
And also those who didn't mind
To mail in carbon copy, blind.
I pray that You in grace defer
To look at our pentameter,
For if you did, Lord, I am sure
That death would soon be at our door.

Too many think it's cool to write in verse -
They know not what they do, Lord - stay your curse.

The end.

David C.

To Young Ladies, That They Be Not Overly Particular

If Cupid aims a little bad, tis clear
That he is mad in love
And should not ladies fear to give
Offense to Venus' turtledove?

Ladies, it is by no means sure that he
Will shoot twice at the heart
That spurns his first address--as we
Must know from Mr. Collins' part.

Less elegance, less, ladies, less!
If spelling be the spell
What lyric fools Romantics were
And yet we know them well!

If Byron, Coleridge, Blake, and Keats, could sway
With phonics so unlawful
Dart not at this respectful man
Your spurnings fierce and awful!

And though thy name be Thomson, yet accept
A mad mistaking "p"
And gather thou the P that missed
Who pricks, but praises thee

Me

Too Many Proposals

Oh isn’t it a lovely sight,
The snow that’s on the ground tonight
But some think it’s a great excuse
For proposals which are of no use

Myself, I think we’ve made a mess
And now I’m in quite dire distress
If someone proposes every time it snows
We’ll be presented with a blizzard of “no”s

And if the ladies get the idear
That men are never quite sincere
Kanary’s advice will be mere wind blowing
For girls, when asked, will say, “it’s snowing?”

Nathan C.

A Chronicle of Not-Quite-Valentine's-Day-Eve

It all began one winter’s day - A message sent to quell dismay
For the ground outside, laden in snow,
If it were not for email, who would know?
The joy soon spread, passed on in fun,
With day complete at the setting of sun
Too early yet, to seek a night’s repose
And dream of holidays of chocolates’n’rose
The door was opened, soon all would be pit
In a war of words in prose with wit

When Cupid’s light shafts did strike amiss
Due to careless spelling of a youth in bliss
Whether truly seeking, or merely in jest
Tis too late now to celebrate his request
For presently, his dreams lie broken
By the rejection felt in the words then spoken
But lest thou think that the day did end
With all hopes lost and no way to mend
The beloved padre addressed those who would mingle
With or propose to girls who art still single
He cautioned them, to prevent the shame
Of wooing hearts using the wrong name

Now, above crippled lost love, transcends
The remainder of the tale my friends
We must now mention, though some have tried to hide it,
Factually, it has long hence been decided:
The grimmest of all earth’s poets are these:
Those men who spout as Socrates
Quashing romance to lay down law
Reprimanding many, crying, "faux pas!"
Then proceeding to beg mercy for those who dare,
To ASE-sans-BCC without a care.
"Forgive their sins, and waive pending doom!"
Thus was the plea penned in sullen gloom
A killjoy? perhaps, but in his defense
He merely asked for common sense

The call of dry wit, whatever the reason,
Appears to have come at a timely season
For future poets seemed to heed his prayer
And names were hid, in the unseen layer
As they sought to try their hand at verse
Thus with their fellow romantics to converse
On and on, back and forth, ‘til all were lost"
Be that the style of Eliot, Cummings, or is it Frost?"
Then at long last, far after it had begun
With inboxes flooding with the dreamwriters’ fun"
Enough!" was hollered, "Quit thy boast!"
"You sicken us with your poetic host!"

And such is the story as ought be told:
The day of intrigue, crushed love, and cold
As chronicled by another who has had
His day’s plans disrupted – like the lover lad
But be not concerned, if you’ve heard the rumor
Of his early morning habits, and obscure humor
For now the tale is complete, and to the masses committed:
An All Student Email (Mr. Anderson omitted)

Nicholas R.

Well, it's been quite a day. But breakfast is almost over, and there are taped Olympics to watch (figure skating!). That's all for now. :-)