Happy Poetry Friday everyone! The longest day has been and gone, and to be honest it already feels like late September in England – where I am, anyway, the skies are grey, the air is a drizzly, misty soup, and we actually lit up the woodburner last night because it was so cold. Normally, it wouldn’t matter – I would be blind to the outdoors at this time of year because my attention would be entirely devoted to watching Glorious Wimbledon. But the inclement conditions have blighted the South-East, too, and the resulting slipperiness of the courts has thus far caused a pretty alarming number of injuries and player withdrawals.
In light of this (ironic to write that as I sit with all the lights on to compensate for the 15 tog blanket of cloud that has blotted out the sun entirely), I have for you four lines of poetry, courtesy of Yeats, which capture the agonies of all those months of training laid to waste by the slick turf and the tensions of those who remain in the competition. COME ON ANDY!
Gratitude to the Unknown Instructors
What they undertook to do
They brought to pass;
All things hang like a drop of dew
Upon a blade of grass.
More Yeats: http://www.poemhunter.com/william-butler-yeats/
Artwork credit: The Independent