Those poets have a way with words
After writing today's post about toothbrushes and bacteria, I somehow thought of the poem "Crazy Jane Talks With the Bishop," by William Butler Yeats, which says the same thing. Or, sort of the same thing. Or a related thing.
So, without further ado, I hereby reproduce it in its entirety:
I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
'Those breasts are flat and fallen now,
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.'
'Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,' I cried.
'My friends are gone, but that's a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness
And in the heart's pride.
'A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.'
The fact is that the body has its attendant messinesses. Probably best to accept that as some sort of yin-yang truth about life.