There is nothing more dull than a tall man devoting himself to poetry.
If he were smelly and small. Or French.
But no, he simply cannot forgive himself at all.
The T.S. Eliot episode is hardly worth mentioning.
A warm, red, inflamed, fall,
a dispirited trudge past the silly autumn leaves falling,
after being taunted, for no reason, at the high school.
Some take a long time to grow up. He found himself
attending to poetry during a growth spurt, before real maturity.
Shy beyond belief, an attitude crept immediately into the poetry.
Stooped over a chess board, lying on the floor in the parlor, inventing war games,
soon it became easy to conquer thoughts with verse.
At least this is how it seemed. Being bent and awkward made it worse.
Winters and summers froze and burned, but he continually lived in a dying fall.
Captivated by the infinite, he found increasing joy in making all that was unreachable small.