Meant for only one elite.

My true love is gonna teach a course on English romantic poets. Three in particular. Byron, Shelley and Wordsworth. She thinks Shelley and Byron became romantics, in part, because they spent time in Italy. Shelley even spoke pretty good Italian. Of course, I have long considered myself a romantic idealist. But that’s even before I met my Italian true love. Now I’m living with her. In Sardinia. And I suspect that makes me even more of a romantic. Because I’m pursuing my romantic dreams. Making them come true. My true love had me reading a poem by Shelley last night. A romantic poem. But I didn’t particularly like it. Because it sounded rather flowerily. Especially for what was supposed to be a lambaste of monarchial government. And he was using words that sounded too nice, too genteel. Sounded far too politely old-fashioned. I’d like to translate the poem into modern English. Words that might be used by a newspaper columnist. Words that common folk could understand. I’m assuming that in his day Shelley was read only by the educated elite. Meanwhile, I write love letters. My version of love poems. Meant for only one elite. –Jim Broede