Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labor be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
And things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence, ripen, fall, and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
by ALFRED LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892)
Public Domain Poetry
unbolt me 
Acknowledgement of history helps us to accept today. Which doesn’t make it any easier. But never was there paradise, merely a lack of worldwide media
LikeLiked by 1 person
Couldn’t have put it better, Crispina! Hear, hear!
LikeLike
Tennison could’ve written it today.
LikeLiked by 1 person
That’s what we thought too, Dolly. It’s strangely prophetic!
LikeLiked by 1 person
As prophetic as most great poets tend to be.
LikeLiked by 1 person