We never see the sun.
We only see the sunbeam.
We get but a glimpse of the true, romantic dream.
The wisdom of Socrates and the old Romantics
The Moderns never get.
Tears of—laughter—made Byron’s face wet.
There is a world of nuance the Moderns don’t know—
Beneath the black, the humor, of Edgar Allan Poe.
Romanticism is not what the Moderns think.
The Dark Lady wasn’t a lover. But a pun on black ink.
Romanticism is not alive with flowers.
Romanticism is the dungeon and a moon, seen in the window, one night, for a couple of hours.
And if this makes you sad, go ahead, be modern. Whatever that means.
A cough in your forties? England by way of Italy in your teens?
Romanticism happened. You never saw it. That’s what it means.