Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. WB Yeats 'Easter 1916' Those lines reverberated as my pencil moved back and forth (like a long-legged fly upon a stream). Immersed in poetry at the moment as I read Seamus Heaney's letters - and his many poetic correspondents. A tonic for becoming overwhelmed by Keats' view of a world unalleviated by things unworldly: ... 'the weariness, the fever and the fret, Here where men sit and hear each other groan ...' |