Poetry is an Old Friend

So in light of the unsettled nature of my mind of late, I have been enjoying reading a good deal of poetry. It's mostly free on Kindle, you can download whole collections, English, American, historical or modern. This is one I have a particular fondness for and will find myself reciting, apropos of nothing.

Antigonish by Hughes Mearns

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door... (slam!)

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away

Isn't it fun? I like all sorts of poets and poetry, Emily Dickinson and Shakespeare and e.e. cummings are all part of my bookshelves. I used to pull my mother's books of poetry off the shelves when I was in elementary school. I remember reading Longfellow's "Evangeline" and dreaming about "the forest primeval, with the murmuring pines and the hemlocks,"  Tennyson's "Lady of Shallot" (10 bonus points if you can name the Agatha Christie novel that took it's name from that poem) and even poor e.e. cummings who tragically misplaced all his punctuation. So poetry and I go way back. And really, what is so comforting when we are troubled in our spirits, as an old friend? It may even be better than chocolate. 

Praise, indeed.