word-spiked, un-ironic
un-self-effacing,
un-metaphysical
very personal trivialities -
except when producing yet another translation
of The Divine Comedy, Beowulf or The Odyssey.
I partly-blame Eliot
the last of the pretentious,
self-considering
super-literary sages,
who washed up in the beautifully-enunciated
metaphysic shallows
of Little Gidding
after the so-precise
so-whatness of The Dry Salvages.
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