Apollo Prescribes a Cure for World-Weariness
2019
How is it, Doctor, that philosophy
Might strip a man of pleasures he once had?
Each night I lie in fear of things to be,
And rise each morning to the self-same drab.
This world, beholden to the whims of Time,
Is scarce enough to tempt me, and I find
It wants for meaning; lacks the true sublime.
What say you, then, to mend this jaded mind?
As with all sickness, I should know a cure—
Your soul wants poetry, and your weary heart
Needs music: ballads, songs in foreign tongues;
The ancient rhymes, the glorious and obscure
That have so blessed us. Live for Shakespeare’s art;
These riches breathe, and the breath shall clear your lungs.