Poetry in my blood
For the last few weeks, my conscious mind has been overwhelmed by the primal drumbeats of verse. I generally get started on a poetry kick when I am feeling down or depressed, and then I spiral for a few weeks before I rein myself in.
Yes, that was me in the park, lying in the grass and reading Whitman. Yes, that was me on the front stoop drinking a dark beer and reading Bukowski. Yes, that was me at Six Flags on Saturday memorizing Shakespearean sonnets.
With that in mind, I give you the short, the sweet "A Drinking Song" by the inimitable W.B. Yeats:
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.