Never mind all these beautiful historical dramas I want a modern day sit com about the Romantic poets like

  • Byron, Shelley, and Keats are roommates.
  • Byron is constantly a dick and Keats is constantly like “fight me” and Shelley is constantly exasperated. 
  • “I swear to God, George, if you even think about fighting him-”
    “Well he asked me to.” 
    “He’s also five feet tall.” 
  • Felicia Hemans lives across the hall from them and everyone thinks she’s really sweet because she bakes a lot and dresses conservatively but she is constantly lowkey throwing shade at everyone. 
  • Byron hates her because she’s better than him at everything. 
  • Mary Wollstonecraft also lives in their building and owns a lot of t-shirts with feminist slogans on. 
  • Every time she bumps into Shelley in the hallway he asks whether her daughter is coming to visit any time soon. He is much less subtle about it than he thinks he is. 
  • Byron frequently gets into flame wars with people on the internet. 
  • “George it’s 3am why are you still awake?” 
    Someone was talking shit about Pope.”
    “Not again.” 
  • At this point, Keats and Shelley have a script they can run through every time they open the door to a crying person asking why Byron never called them back. 
  • A running joke in which there is a loud noise every time someone says Shelley’s middle name correctly. 
  • Another running joke in which Byron and his sister constantly get mistaken for a couple. 

Image: A quartzite colossus, possibly of Ramses II, has been discovered at the ancient Heliopolis archaeological site in Cairo. (Anadolu Agency/Getty Images)

Archaeologists in Cairo have discovered an ancient statue, believed to depict Ramses II, submerged in mud. 

What’s bookish about this story? Well, blogger Camila Domonoske couldn’t help but note, “The discovery of a forgotten, submerged statue of Ramses II brings to mind one of the most famous poems in English literature – albeit substituting muck for desert sands.”

Yup, Ramses II was also known as Ozymandias, a name you may know from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s famous sonnet:

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 


Massive Ancient Statue Discovered Submerged In Mud In Cairo

Although barely out of adolescence…[Shelley] was, in 1813, an ardent radical and anti-monarchist. Physically, he was rather odd, tall and slim to the point of limpness, with a high-pitched effete voice; but what he lacked in physical bulk he more than made up for in charismatic intensity. Among the earliest witnesses to this intensity were his school fellows at Eton, where he was sent by his landowning father when he was twelve. Initially he was bullied for his refusal to ‘fag’ for older boys, but the bullies soon discovered that in spite of his feeble frame, Shelley was not a boy to succumb quietly to taunts. On the contrary, he could be terrifying when roused, and was quite capable of reciprocal acts of violence. He stabbed one tormentor’s hand with a fork, and others remembered him as an almost unearthly creature, with flashing eyes, wild hair, and deathly white cheeks.
—  young romantics - daisy hay
“Love’s Philosophy” by Percy Bysshe Shelley (b. 4 August 1792)

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another’s being mingle–
Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;–
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

- Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Romantic Poets as people at my apartment complex

Blake: The old guy on the first floor who covers all his windows with newspaper and paints all his terra cotta pots bright red. He’s never spoken to me or anyone else, to my knowledge, but he’s been there longer than anyone. On a different level entirely.

Wordsworth: The next door neighbor with the most beautiful patio in the complex. He’s got all kinds of beautiful plants that are healthy, no matter how much everyone else’s are dying. Very chill, but don’t cross him. Has been here forever and has been known to get salty with the management when a repair takes too long.

Coleridge: That one guy a couple years back who we all thought had died because his mail was piling up outside his door, but as it turned out, he was really just asleep for two whole days (?????) and felt really bad for making everyone worry. Wherever he is, I hope he’s alive.

Byron: That young professional guy who broadly hinted that he had had sex on top of one of the washing machines in the laundry area, but wouldn’t say which one. (He may or may not have been messing with me.) Never seemed to work, but dressed really well and took Ubers everywhere. Actually pretty funny, but I wouldn’t want to go on a trip with him or anything. Sat on the balcony smoking a hookah.

Shelley: The friendly, yet constantly disheveled upstairs neighbor who worked for a local nonprofit and was always playing records at weird hours of the night. Walked very loudly and sang in the shower. Every night at approximately eight o’clock he’d laugh a singular laugh at something (”HA!”) and then he’d go to bed. He was pretty cool, just odd. Down for Nazi-punching.

Keats: That male nurse on the far side of the complex who snuck in a cat a couple years ago and probably has like a squillion of them now. Has one plant that is struggling for survival, but he’s doing his best with it. Always seems nice, but is low key intimidating. Has names for all the raccoons who forage in the dumpsters, and can be seen checking out the furniture that people discard.

  • Percy Shelley: [trying to write]
  • Lord Byron: Shelley?... Shelley?... Shelley?... Shelley?...Shelley? ... Shelley... Shelley... Shelley... Shelley... Shelley?... Shelley. Shelley.
  • Percy Shelley: This better be good.
  • Lord Byron: You know the black bits in bananas? Are they tarantula's eggs?
  • Percy Shelley: ...Please don't speak to me ever again in your life.
  • Lord Byron: What's your novel about?
  • Percy Shelley: It's about a genius who can't get anything done because of a monkey that keeps annoying him.
  • Lord Byron: You've made a classic error.
  • Percy Shelley: Have I?
  • Lord Byron: What you've done is you've focused in on the wrong character, yeah? Now, the monkey, I'm loving him, but the other guy, I'm getting nothing off him. He sounds like a dick.