OK, living is a bad habit, like smoking. But like other habits, it's hard to kick. Right now, I'm with Dylan Thomas, who advised us to "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Some call this bad poetry, but I'm raging and Thomas was right.

I didn't mean to suggest that either the fellow who built the castle, or Yeats, was trying to isolate himself. Maybe I should have referred to the dwelling as a palace. The point was, somebody built a house by himself, to his own specifications, to live there in the way he wished to.

There is something about Ireland that suggests poetry. The music of the country is among the most touching of ethnic music types. And some of the songs, like Dingle Bay, Danny Boy, and Fields of Atherny, are reasonably good poetry set to music.

As to whether life is worth living, my own view is, that you have to find a way to live harmoniously with your surroundings. As long as you're health is good, it should be possible to develop a lifestyle that is satisfying. Having a congenial mate helps a lot in this regard, but somebody living alone ought to be able to work things out.

There appear to be a number of people accessing this site, who are interested in poetry, literature, and that sort of thing, and perhaps the discussion and presentation of it would be facilitated if, at some time in the future, a forum were devoted to that sort of thing. Not that the story section of the Archive isn't literature, but Yeats would have gotten lost in it.

Incidentally, the poem made me think of this pic by Washington Allston, who has been described as one of the four "American old masters."

http://cgfa.sunsite.dk/a/p-allston2.htm

Beautiful painting - thanks. I love all of the American romantics - the Hudson River School. A few years ago, the Metropolitan Museum in NYC had a retrospective of their work - Frederic Church, Thomas Cole, Albert Bierstadt, etc.

Hmmm,

The advertisment that flashed above the painting of Paris Hilton winking wasn't too bad, either.

"Quarry slaves" I believe pertains to heavy laborers, like the Egyptians who labored on the Pyramids.

Either that or perhaps the quarry slaves were the ones who were stoned. (joke)

The "Mysterious Realm" pertains to "the other side" or the place where the souls go after the death of the body. Some call it "the spirit world", in Catholicism it is called Purgatory.

Mortality is something that has an individual meaning to us all. Me, I am happy that I have been able to go on this great ride called "life".

When the end comes, I will move on to what is next. All in all it has been a pretty good run for me, and I would do it again if I could. However, I hope that if I do that, a small portion, even an attitude, stays with me as a reminder of my experiences thus far. All in all, life is not the dominant nature of things, death is. There are more people dead than there are living today.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost...

A-1

I just thought of Ed White, a graduate of West Point and the first American "to walk" in space. He is buried at West Point in the incredibly beautiful Hudson River Valley. Winter is tough, but the place is splendid all the time. Of you are in the area, take the tour at West Point.

I visited West Point quite a few years ago. It's as lovely as you say.

A-1, since we're indulging in a lit-fest, I thought to share this poem by Ezra Pound which, I think, goes to the heart of your last post:

Pisan Cantos, LXXXI

What thou lovest well remains,

the rest is dross

What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee

What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage

Whose world, or mine or theirs

or is it of none?

First came the seen, then thus the palpable

Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,

What thou lovest well is thy true heritage

What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee.

--Ezra Loomis Pound