A romantic child, I longed
for raven braids with love-knots
and blood-dark roses, heroic sacrifice
and poetry scribbled in French
garrets with rain-splashed gables,
city streets steaming from tears
falling in my heart pounding
like hoof-beats in the moonlight
over vast, lonely purple moors.
I often day-dreamed in class, except when we studied poetry. Maybe 6th grade was a bit early for “The Highwayman,” but by the time I read Paul Verlaine in high school, I had already become too cynical to enjoy “Il pleure dans mon coeur,” and too inexperienced to recognize the poet’s depression.