Heartsease is all I seek. And for that cause These songs I plant, for like young Jack Given some magic beans, they’re all I’ve got. And since it’s liable that on this earth Somethings must grow just as somethings must not, I would prefer the fruit we eat Be fallen from a lovely tree; Though worms content themselves with rot And oft so too must we, If we’ve the means why should we not Plant ease of heart?
Discussion about this post
No posts
This really needs to be the epigram for some book of aesthetic criticism; something against the "all art is quite useless" pronouncement of Wilde, I think.