I thought I heard a curlew cry,
beneath the dull November sky,
somewhere above the drifts of fog,
just for a moment, then I knew,
no curved billed bird would come in view.
It was a walker passing by,
who whistled for his dog,
instead. And yet it made my heart as glad
to hear that sound, as if I had
in truth experienced the bird,
his haunting song, the one I’d heard,
still filled my soul with pure, immense
nostalgia from those hidden springs,
the geyser which with power flings
this sentimental substance through
one’s veins and up into one’s head.
And so one is complicit in
such self deceptions as improve
one’s spirits and elicit in
oneself the comforting, Proustian mood
‘du temps perdu.’
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