Oh- this is national poetry month in Britain. Excellent. October is far more poetic than April. I shall call on my honourary English citizenship (from my paternal grandparents, not that the EC will give me citizenship for either of my bloodlines grump) and post melancholy poetry.
Others, I am not the first, Have willed more mischief than they durst: If in the breathless night I too Shiver now, ’tis nothing new.
More than I, if truth were told, Have stood and sweated hot and cold, And through their reins in ice and fire Fear contended with desire.
Agued once like me were they, But I like them shall win my way Lastly to the bed of mould Where there’s neither heat nor cold.
But from my grave across my brow Plays no wind of healing now, And fire and ice within me fight Beneath the suffocating night. --AE Housman
(Maybe I should throw in some Auden as a corrective?
Just the same, I am very glad I shall never Be twenty and have to go through that business again, The hours of fuss and fury, the conceit, the expense.)
