A little morning sunlight

The kitchen windowsill with morning sunlight streaming in. The purple flowers are called Batchelors Buttons - how cute is that?

In Rome there is a small and picturesque cemetary tucked away behind a pyramid. I won't start with a history lesson about the pyramid and the graveyard, you can google the hell out of Rome, the amount of history at every turn is almost overwhelming. What I loved about this quiet place (which we dubbed 'the heathen cemetary' for the non-Catholic status of those within) apart from finding possibly the cleanest public toilet in Rome, was the gravestone of the poet John Keats. Near to the pyramid and an expanse of lawn peppered with little white flowers, engraved with such bitter words, it brought tears to my eyes. "...Here lies one whose name was writ in water."
I felt despair at the hopeless anger of one who had died young, thinking himself a failure in his craft. I turned from the gravestone, heart-wrenched, to find a memorial on the stone wall nearby, written by Sir Vincent Eyre.

Keats! if thy cherished name be "writ in water"
Each drop has fallen from some mourner's cheek;
A sacred tribute; such as heroes seek,
Though oft in vain - for dazzling deeds of slaughter
Sleep on! Not honoured less for Epitaph so meek!

I know poetry isn't everyones cup of tea, but this story makes me think about how we value ourselves, and the importance that we place on being valued by others. Isn't it enough to honour our hearts and our crafts? To live truly? Must we have the critics nod before we are ok with our creations?