Image result for the lake district in 19th century painting

When I realized how sad I was—

And how it profited me to say

Exactly how I felt, to everyone around me every day,

Starting with my mother before I was one—

It was that moment when I read

A poem by someone who was dead,

And the poem was so full

Of sorrow, but managed to be beautiful.

Here, I knew sorrow was beautiful.

And it wasn’t that beauty covered up sorrow;

I realized beauty and sorrow were the same;

The beauty, that was the sorrow, protected me from sorrow;

My mother and my father and their arrangement were not to blame;

There was no progress possible;

There was no improving, or getting ahead—

I kissed my mother; I wrote a poem; I lingered in that beautiful sorrow instead.

1 Comment

  1. maryangeladouglas said,

    February 26, 2020 at 4:06 pm

    The Beautiful sorrowful is an endless mystery in art;you expressed this in such a beautiful and sorrowful way so that your poem is in itself beauty and sorrow both. Keats would be proud.

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