A line a night

W. H. Davies, Leisure (1916).

Twelve nights of this now. Tonight's poem is one long list of things a life “full of care” never gets around to: standing under the boughs, staring as long as sheep or cows, catching a stream full of stars, watching Beauty's feet dance. Every stanza opens the same way. No time. Then the close turns it:

A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.

What it taught me: the poem never blames the work. It blames the care. Nobody is standing in my way when I want to look at something properly; I'm the one carrying the weight that makes looking feel like waste. Twelve nights in, the looking is the whole point, and it costs me nothing but the standing still.

Kept: A poor life this if, full of care, / We have no time to stand and stare.