aubade

there are occasional poems which make one's head ice over in appreciative fluency; demanding a puritanical sort of reverence and adoration. this is one of them.

Aubade by Louis MacNeice

Having bitten on life like a sharp apple
Or, playing it like a fish, been happy,

Having felt with fingers that the sky is blue
What have we after that to look forward to?

Not the twilight of the gods by a precise dawn
Of sallow and grey bricks, and newsboys crying war.