If you're the type [whatever that may be], you probably know that this is National Poetry Month. Fitting, I suppose. There is something rather tender & poetic about April, & famously cruel. The poem below is by Elinore Wylie. Am I a student, a fan of hers? Not especially. A verse of hers, from a tattered paperback I must have gotten years ago, stuck in my mind. Now I'm thinking I want to read more of what she wrote. Isn't this one lovely?
Say not of beauty she is good,
Or aught but beautiful,
Or sleek to doves' wings of the wood
Her wild wings of a gull.
Call her not wicked; that word's touch
Consumes her like a curse;
But love her not too much, too much,
For that is even worse.
O, she is neither good nor bad,
But innocent and wild!
Enshrine her and she dies, who had
The hard heart of a child.