Robin Hood (John Keats)

Robin Hood

By John Keats


No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter’s shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest’s whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz’d to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the “grenè shawe”;
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall’n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her—strange! that honey
Can’t be got without hard money!

So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.


Speech for any socialist party

The good glorious old days where people were equal, equal in rights and equal in money.
The good glorious old days have been buried like our own most frightened secrets.
The good glorious old days had cold winters like nowadays, and sunny Sundays like today.

Yet no, the upper classes have been stepping up their games and taken money on their behalf.

Not only the upper classes in where we are now, but the upper classes in all directions: our people are in danger. The time seems not to be ours anymore, which is utterly unreasonable, the time should be everyone’s,  at any moment, and everywhere, not just the wolfs of Wallstreet’s time

Even in the times where the brightest of lights is, we don’t get what we deserve, we don’t get what we need. As I said before, this is not just for you, but for every human kind that has the right to live a good life. With all modern technology, why don’t we finally start to think normal/modern and give people equality. We get to see all beautiful things in life that we can afford, though we never get to see a Robin Hood nowadays, even when it’s urgent.. Never will we be able to see Robin Hood, or any of his comrades again. Never and nowhere: not in this country, not in this continent and not on this globe. Not a bloody chance!

Gone, all good glorious old days are gone, where we (workers) had our rights and money.
Gone, all things people like Karl Marx, Saint-Simon and Friedrich Engels fought for: equality.
Gone, like the fighting spirit we used to have, the spirit to succeed in what we want to achieve.

Robin Hood should be brought back to life again, so the oppressors and capitalists would be stunned and held back. We should not cry and watch the situation getting worse and worse. We should stand up for what we stood up for, even though it seems like we started to sit down. When Robin Hood isn’t here, you and I can be Robin Hood, you and I can be the change everyone needs. Let us give the people what they really need, let us stand up as humans!

by Abel Pleij


When I have fears that I may cease to be (John Keats)

When I have fears that I may cease to be

by John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.


Dear George,

How are you, my brother? I’m writing you because something crossed my mind. Things haven’t been going great for me. This afternoon, I was casually sitting on my couch in front of the fireplace. A glass of fine wine on the side: a lovely, cosy evening. Well… It seemed a lovely evening. I started thinking… Thinking about death. What if I die tomorrow? Mother died, father died… Even Thomas has died. I have fears… Fears that my end is near. I have still so much to write, and so little time left. My head is full of unwritten stories, poems, letters… There are so many books to be written; holding my words like a grain silo holds grain. I want the fame. I want the recognition. I deserve it. What if I die tomorrow? I went out to get some fresh air, and look up the sky. Just to clear my head. The clouds I saw, depressed me even more. I saw clouds that floated so peacefully. It made me thinking even more. I would never get the chance to try the sweet taste of love. Not any kind of love, no, not any kind. The real kind of love, the best feeling love can give. If I die tomorrow… I can’t even get close to sparkles of that feeling when I die tomorrow. There’s too little time to find love. Never will I experience the magical feeling of blinding adoration for someone. But then I went back inside. I sat down, and my eye fell on the globe next to my sofa. And all my fear rushed out my body. Because I realised, what does it even matter? In the end, we’re all the same, little creatures subservient to the great, cruel, wide world. What’s love and fame in a world as big as ours?

It doesn’t matter, it does not.

Life was never what it seemed, not what I’ve thought.

Yours sincerely,



by Anonymous