Fuck Romanticism

[Sara’s sonnet]*

As Samuel reached his pantheistic peaks,

climbing those heights that the Aeolian speaks,

I wanted my arousal to gather and glow

more than pious interruptus continues to show.

How he feigned to upbraid and repeat the wrong

when in fact all that coyness was to play me along:

were sink and rise my Romantic sixty nine

rather than its volte-face to his poetic decline.

To have shone in that same power of light -

instead my rebuff made such joy take fright.

Could I too have had the tremble in thought

and by the phantasies I secretly sought

there’d be no awe or tamed reversal,

no kowtow to entering Heaven’s rehearsal.

[*] her pathetic riposte to Coleridge’s The Eolian Harp