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she walks in beauty like the night

A few weeks ago, I found a nice edition of Palgrave's Golden Treasury, a book that we always had at home, in a nice late Victorian edition that had originally belonged to my great grandmother. I hadn't even flicked through my purchase until this evening, and when I did I remembered how much I loved reading poetry in my teens.

And how I sort of...grew out of it. Which is very sad, I think. I used to adore reading Donne and Herrick and the Romantics; I devoured my mother's collected Baudelaire. I had a journal where I wrote out poems I partically liked, like He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven; I used to read beautiful love poetry and feel overcome with misery because I didn't have anyone to fall in love with. I used to dream of finding a boy who would murmur "o my America, my newfound land". And then, when I grew up and actually experienced something of what the poets were writing about first hand, I got out of the habit of reading them. I think I should get back into it again.

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