"Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn..."
Those exquisite lines are from "Ode To A Nightingale," by John Keats. What poignancy is contained in the three words, "sick for home!" Aren't we all sometimes sick for home after we reach adulthood?
Okay, this is a little diversion. I love poetry, especially the three Williams: Shakespeare, Blake and Butler Yeats, plus, of course, Emily. I like Tennyson ("Nature red in tooth and claw") and Housman ("I cheer a dead man's sweetheart/Never ask me whose"), and lots of others. Strangely, Whitman usually leaves me cold, although I have a sneaking fondness for Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her hubby.
This was brought on by the facts that 1. I'm trying to find the origin of "Alone and afraid in a world I never made," a perfect, it seems to me, depiction of the present state of so many Americans; and 2. Nothing went on around here yesterday of the slightest interest to anyone.
Wider: Note this gem from Obama's speech last night:
"The eyes of all people in all nations are once again upon us — watching to see what we do with this moment, waiting for us to lead.”
Since when?! This is a perfect example of the incredible arrogance of our "leaders"--the certain, absolutely assured idea, rooted in sanctimonious concrete, that we were designated (by God, I assume) to lead the world. Therefore, whatever we do is for the world's own good, no matter if we murder their children, raze their cities, and make their lives hell.
Talk about exceptionalism--nobody can touch us in that arena.