Ooh, poetry day.  Love poetry.  Here’s a sonnet from my learnt-by-heart collection, dedicated today to all the ‘resented‘ and anyone else likely to lose out if the Human Rights Act is repealed.

It’s not the easiest of poems to read off the page in your head, but recited out loud in slow, measured tones, it seems uncannily apposite:

The pillar perish’d is whereto I leant;
The strongest stay of mine unquiet mind;
The like of it, no man again can find,
From east to west still seeking though he went.
To mine unhap; for hap away hath rent
Of all my joy the very bark and rind.
And I, alas! by chance am thus assign’d
Dearly to mourn, till death do it relent.
But since that  thus it is  by destiny,
What can I more, but have a woeful heart?
My pen in plaint, my voice in woeful cry,
My mind in woe, my body full of smart,
And I myself, myself always to hate;
Till dreadful death do ease my doleful state.

– Sir Thomas Wyatt         

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