It happens one grey winter’s day.
All’s still, the light is dim
A grumpy old man makes his way—
No one should speak to him.
He hears the flood of youth go by
Full of storm and stress
Profane and pointless to his eye
This rash almightiness.
Mockingly he knits his brow
The grey light fades apace
The snow is gently falling now
He covers up his face.
Up in the bare-branched mountain ash
Troubling his old man’s dreams
Squabbling blackbirds, loud and brash.
He hates the seagulls’ screams.
Silently he’ll scorn and scold
Such pompous proud display.
And so into the dark and cold
He wends his hoary way.
It should not be important to us to keep or copy the past, but we should be adaptable enough to experience the new and to engage ourselves in it with all our strength. In this context, grief in the sense of holding on to what has been lost is not a good thing, and is not in accord with true life.
From a letter written on
28th July 1916 to his sister Adele