My favorite since I was a child, William Blake. Yours has a much earlier pedigree, but I haven't made sense of how or why some worlds share poetry while also diverging wildly otherwise.
Perhaps someone has buried that secret along with the rest. What an exhumation that would be! The dark deeds of the past and an explanation of the literature.
You understand precisely what I'm trying to say, and yet you still make fun! I would have every right to be cut to the bone, utterly devastated, if I wanted to.
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[ You dork.... ]
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A drop of romance in an otherwise dark truth softens the blow, I would say! Otherwise we would all be downtrodden, all of the time.
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I am but two days old
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name
Sweet joy befall thee!
That sort of thing?
[ Kill me I hate Blake. ]
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Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like the other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
I haven't heard of yours!
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Keep that up and I may start to wonder if you're making fun of me. But yes! It is, if not the spice of life, at least one of them.
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And I am making fun, a little.
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