She can't tell me that all of the love songs have been written

Hmmm, yes... I am busily avoiding Wordsworth and Keats, so I post. No news, really. There is one thing with YKW, but I'm not going to talk about it at large until it comes off. If you want to know, just IM me...
I was looking at my poetry book tonight, trying to find acceptance quotes for zoing, and I found this. I love this poem, even though I did discover it in AP English (boo! hiss!). I'm not going to cut it, though, because my entries are always much shorter than everyone else's, and I find this depressing.

         "Eros Turannos"
She fears him, and will always ask
  What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask
  All reasons to refuse him;
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years,
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
  Of age, were she to lose him.

Between a blurred sagacity
  That once had power to sound him,
And Love, that will not let him be
  The Judas that she found him,
Her pride assauges her almost,
As if it were alone the cost.
He sees that he will not be lost,
  And waits and looks around him.

A sense of ocean and old trees
  Envelopes and allures him;
Tradition, touching all he sees,
  Beguiles and reassures him;
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed with what she knows of days--
Till even prejudice delays
  And fades, and she secures him.

The falling leaf inaugurates
  The reign of her confusion;
The pounding wave reverberates
  The dirge of her illusion;
And home, where passion lived and died,
Becomes a place where she can hide,
While all the town and harborside
  Vibrate with her seclusion.

We tell you, tapping on our brows,
  The story as it should be,
As if the story of a house
  Were told, or ever could be;
We'll have no kindly veil between
Her visions and those we have seen,
As if we guessed what hers have been,
  Or what they are or would be.

Meanwhile we do no harm; for they
  That with a god have striven,
Not hearing much of what we say,
  Take what the god has given;
Though like waves breaking it may be,
Or like a changed familiar tree,
Or like a stairway to the sea
  Where down the blind are driven.
       --Edwin Arlington Robinson

Poetry. I love poetry. I wish I could write it. I haven't written a lot lately, although I tried a week or two ago. One problem is that when I like someone, I want to write love poems, but they SUCK. I did come up with something that pleased me at the time, but I know that if I look at it now, I'll end up rewriting it. Ah, me. I really should do something productive at some point. I have been almost a nonentity today. This is the sum total of my accomplishments:
1. I went to class.
That's all.
I think I will go pretend to work for a while. Toodle-oo.
P.S. How strange... HTML is a very odd thing.