Author: Hamlet (---.dsl.wotnoh.ameritech.net)
Date: 09-28-05 15:28
As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug's game. No honest poet can ever
feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for
T. S. EliotBeauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we
should like to stretch out over the whole of time. -Albert Camus
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.