And in the spirit of things both poetic and bend-y:

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose,
Scentless, colourless, this!
Will it ever be thus (who knows?)
Thus with our bliss,
If we wait till the close?

Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end
Sooner, later, at last,
Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:
An end locked fast,
Bent we cannot re-bend.

~ Rosetti

Ah and I now just had a delightful hour reading through some of these poems online. I especially like his description of spring in Two Tramps in Mud Time, being from the northeast and knowing exactly what he’s talking about. And I always feel like of all the depressive, miserable, emo poetry in the world, Robert Frost’s particular brand of morbidity matches most closely to my own.

This one’s on the especially morbid side (Fire and Ice):

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

I love poetry Saturday.