Reading through the day’s news, I felt the usual pangs of disgust and anger — mostly but not entirely at Republican politians. When will enough of them, while scratching their asses, discover their backbones? It could happen, right? In fact, it will happen.
And at that point a wee small timorous voice in the distance whispered a couple famiar lines.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good
will be the final goal of ill
That can happen to unreconstructed English majors, even in their eighties. So I listened to the line again. Aha, says I. Tennyson.
Tennyson? That pompous Victorian Empire and Bible salesman? Yeah, him. I’d forgotten he might have written something good along the way. But I couldn’t recall the whole poem, so I looked it up.
Oh well. Should have known. Later verses ramble through gloom and pain and random misery, all — perhaps — to be balance out. Sometime.
Is there a lesson here for the Trump generations. Not really.
Is there any lesson at all to be gained from these word squanderings I keep posting on Some Old Guy?
Yeah. The lesson is to hell with Victorian poets.
Except Browning, him and her. And the Rosettis, both of them. And Hood and Morris and Arnold and (maybe) Carroll. And Edward Lear, him too.
But still, to hell with Tennyson.