Percy Bysshe Shelley was by all accounts a bit of a lad. He had a habit of developing an infatuation with somebody and running off with them. His second wife penned “Frankenstein” after a session of telling ghost stories with a bunch of other poets whilst in Switzerland. This here is the Little Project tribute to PBS (and that’s not the American television thingy).
I met a bike from an ancient time
who on two flat and airless wheels
Stood in a garden, decaying beyond repair
Half rusted, a battered frame of red
and seatless yet with wiring down
Tell of the builder well those bolts are fast
which yet survive hammered to the very end
The brake thing that mocked and the hand that bled
And in the shed these words appear:
“My name is Little Project, thing of things:
Look on my engine, Robby and despair!”
Nothing beside remains round the crankcase
Of that colossal wreck, rounded, rusted and seized,
The sound of engines running seems far away.
“Little Project, thing of things” has been playing around my head all day and I’d 5 minutes before the dinner was cooked.
Sorry if I’ve made your ears bleed.