With Sincere Apologies to John Keats

Upon the mysterious cracking of my mug

THOU 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-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Lexington or the dales of Green Bay?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What soups and drinks? What wild ecstasy?

Tasted beverages are sweet, but those unsipped
Are sweeter; therefore, ye coffee pot, brew on;
Not to the sensual tongue, but, more endear'd,
Brew to the spirit drinks of no taste:
Fair soup, within the bowl, thou canst not leave
Thy noodles, nor ever can those crackers be stale;
Bold Drinker, never, never canst thou swig,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
It cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and it be fair!

Ah, happy, happy noodles! that cannot lose
Your firmness, nor ever bid the Broth adieu;
And, happy spoon, unwearièd,
For ever dipping mouthfuls for ever new;
More happy soup! more happy, happy soup!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever steaming, and for ever fresh;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.