dublinka

Love the picture. I never realised that Montague was born in New York. If this isn't one of the finest poems of the last century I'll buy his hat and eat it.



No Music by John Montague

I'll tell you a sore truth, little understood
It's harder to leave, than to be left:
To stay, to leave, both sting wrong.

You will always have me to blame,
Can dream we might have sailed on;
From absence's rib, a warm fiction.

To tear up old love by the roots,
To trample on past affections:
There is no music for so harsh a song.