A blackbird sings on Bluebird hill
November brought to mind in August:
The lack of light, that all day twilight!
How can anybody live through such visual misery?
Without declining into snake, or toad?
Even the trees will have no leaves.
And the cold will rise to infect our eyes!
We are, unfortunately, not Italian, nor Etruscan,
Just woolly-backed mammoth barbarian sorcerers
Of a certain druidical disposition: visceral,
Bruised, damaged, rag and bone men of the heart,
Who can rise to the cloud-topping disquisitions
Of an unfettered poetry brought to the world
In strictest measure
By the boozers and the losers, by the mead imbibers,
The wine guzzlers, laudanum tipplers of Stratford atte Bowe,
And elsewhere, in these foggy isles of our own making;
For what is past is prologue to the future,
And all the realm will be full of sweet airs,
Perforated by the drift of lazy, gaudy butterflies,
Who give delight and hurt not,
As was once-upon-a-time foretold.