Foxy Boxing

It is grey and raining today. There are big security-barred windows in my office in Shepherds Bush with a view of a two lane roundabout. It's bleak. Here's a poem.

O Swallow, Swallow by Alfred Lord Tennyson

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North long since my nest is made.

O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

Don't go reading to much into why I like this, I'm not relating to the entire sentiment of it, and if I was she'd probably just tell the swallow to get lost anyway. The bit I really like is "bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North". In New Zealand it's still kind of appropriate but you need to swap North and South around. It's to do with proximity to the equator you see... Anyway, I like a little old-timey unbridled romantic optimism every now and then, it's not the sort of thing I'm exposed to frequently - most of what I read, watch, and listen to is fairly cynical. I still like Bukowski more than Tennyson though so I should really keep it to myself.