Poetry?

Poetry plays my heart with its gentle fingers.  Then as I longed with my teary eyes, the poets seemed just turned their heads with a knowing nod.  The souls can not be lonely when there is poetry.

I found Philip Larkin's "Days" this morning.  I guess it's fitting for my blog.

Days

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BY PHILIP LARKIN

What are days for?

Days are where we live.   

They come, they wake us   

Time and time over.

They are to be happy in:   

Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question

Brings the priest and the doctor   

In their long coats

Running over the fields.