Inform me, please, how does it feel
To realise your heart’s ideal?
The prey of no regret’s sour zeal,
On friendly terms with all that’s real,
What orange sweetness of the mind
Is granted to your favoured kind?
You tall and blonde and beautiful,
And (by your good luck) reasonable,
And calm and cosy, comfortable
What misty, whistling peace prevails
Across your lakes and down your vales?
Quite uselessly I would deny
– And given this I shall not try –
Thick envy foams behind these eyes;
And this is but a plaintive cry
Against the stupid cleverness
Of you who’ve grasped life’s splendidness.
But jealousy seems rational here
Inside the corridors of fear
Where choking smoke makes shapes unclear
And every kind of doom seem near.
It lessens some the dreadful toll
On minds honesty won’t (or can’t) console.
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