A Pity Beyond All Telling…

…is hid in the heart of love. Wrote Yeats, and went on to describe the pleasurable experience of…worrying, I reckon, about one’s love object, even if he or she really isn’t in any immediate danger, none beyond the mortality we all share:

“A pity beyond all telling/Is hid in the heart of love:/The folk that are buying and selling,/The clouds on their journey above,/The cold wet wind ever blowing,/The shadowy hazel grove/ Where mouse-grey waters are flowing/Threaten the head that I love.”

oh, where is HE ( or she) tonight? It’s dark and cold, anything could happen…you revel in your tender concern—and alternatively, you may wonder whether your beloved is worried about you? That is also an exciting thought…

But that’s all about romantic love, God bless it. I’m here to remind you about the sadder but wise side of it, when you think back to the need and longing you saw in your parents, or your young spouse, or your infant child, which you didn’t immediately alleviate, although you could have .

What would you give, now, to be able to go back and say oh my dear, I see your need, and here, HERE, is everything you could be wanting, everything, at least, that I have power to bestow?

“In this brief life, that only lasts an hour—/ How much! How little— is within our power!” wrote Emily Dickinson.

Tru dat!

Well! We can do no better and no worse than to start from where we ware now.
But I’m crying as I write. I know I can never make it all up.