It sure is nice to run across that perfect poem that says, in a better, more clear way, what I have heavy on the heart. This has been a day of riding upriver in a long metal boat with the wind directly in my face, and a night of anticipation for plans of unstudied adventure. What osprey finally flies, in the moment so close, has the sense to find out who is really who before departing. The wind still holds. I look closer now, and trust less. This is learning. 

Wild Oats

 

by Philip Larkin

 

About twenty years ago

Two girls came in where I worked—

A bosomy English rose

And her friend in specs I could talk to.

Faces in those days sparked

The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt

If ever one had like hers:

But it was the friend I took out,

 

And in seven years after that

Wrote over four hundred letters,

Gave a ten-guinea ring

I got back in the end, and met

At numerous cathedral cities

Unknown to the clergy. I believe

I met beautiful twice. She was trying

Both times (so I thought) not to laugh.

 

Parting, after about five

Rehearsals, was an agreement

That I was too selfish, withdrawn,

And easily bored to love.

Well, useful to get that learnt.

In my wallet are still two snaps

Of bosomy rose with fur gloves on.

Unlucky charms, perhaps.