emptying the handbag of my mind
Last time I said I’d return to Keats and ‘glut[ting] thy sorrow on a morning rose‘, but I’ve got a bit distracted by a Frost poem. Maybe it’s not distraction, though. Perhaps I haven’t had enough coffee yet to remember why the poem joined up—in my head at least—with the Keats and, according to my notes, Frankenstein and the recent film Freud’s Last Session (!). Blimey. Perhaps best just read it before I say any more. Here’s ‘Acceptance‘ by Robert Frost.
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