Poetry

Last night the scraper and I went to a meeting of the poetry group. The subject was greed/gluttony; not a very poetic subject.

One of the poems I took with me to read is by the Renaissance poet, George Wither, who lived

from 1588-1667. He wrote it in 1635, 374 years ago and he might as well have written it yesterday:

When I behold the havoc and the spoil

Which, even within the compass of my days,

Is made through every quarter of this isle,

In woods and groves, which were this kingdom's praise,

And when I mind with how much greediness

We seek the present gain in everything,

Not caring (so our lust we may possess)

What damage to posterity we bring...

What our forefathers planted, we destroy;

Nay, all men's labours, living heretofore,

And all our own, we lavishly employ

To serve our present lusts, and for no more.

There is a powerful message in this poem, one we still haven't understood and probably never will.