Originally Posted On January 13 2012
Before a new long and articulated post, some melancholic poetry.
They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lords, Lords without anger and honour, who dare not carry their swords.
They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;
They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.
And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,
Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs.