A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do
The soul has many motions, body one.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.
Too much reality can be a dazzle, a surfeit;Too close immediacy an exhaustion
But when I breath with the birds, The spirit of wrath becomes the spirit of blessings, And the dead begin from their dark to sing in my sleep.
(I measure time by how a body sways. )
The tender Evenlode that makes Her meadows hush to hear the sound Of waters mingling in the brakes, And binds my heart to English ground. A lovely river, all alone, She lingers in the hills and holds A hundred little towns of stone, Forgotten in the western wolds.
When I was playing football I never enjoyed it that much, I was never happy. . . if I scored two goals, I wanted a third, I always wanted more. Now it's all over I can look back with satisfaction, but I never felt that way when I was playing.
Avoid teams at all cost. Keep your circle small. Never join a group that has a name.
And this is the only immortality you and i may share, my Lolita.