Worn out by the ripe old age of 29, Byron regrets the loss of youth. He still wants everything but realises with sorrow in maturity, that we are finite. ‘So we’ll go no more a-roving’ So, we’ll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, [...]
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Garcia Lorca once described theatre as, “poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair.” To my mind, his poetry has that kind of insistent theatricality. Here, on this Good Friday, is a poem of incredible pain and anguish. The weeping, as the poet hears it, will [...]
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