I am no Tristan; you, my love, are not
Isolde; that we love, I love to think,
Is our achievement, due to no one’s plot
Of putting aphrodisiac in the drink.
We never postulated night should sink
On our account, nor told the planets what
Their duties are; but neither did we shrink
From common daylight and the common lot.
Guesswork apart, I find it hard to say
What Wagner’s drunken lovers do next day:
Presumably their crapula requires
Incessant pick-me-ups of vertigo.
We walk our own verandah, lit by fires
Native and central to the earth we know.
Image credit: Raekoda