Mr. Yeats, please forgive me.

Dear Mr. Yeats:
This letter is to ask for your forgiveness on how I have botched your beautiful poem "Easter 1916" and used only an excerpt of it for the title of this blog.  Please, before you roll in your grave, understand that I have fallen in love head over heels with you and with Mr. Emerson (for now anyway.)  I did steal a glance at Mr. Eliot (and some others) for he is as brilliant as you are.  As you no doubt are aware: People who are in love do crazy, out of characteristic things - very much like what I am doing now: starting a blog when I have no talent nor time to write.  Dare I also mention that English is my second language?
It is your doing after all, sir, if I may be so blunt.  You see, after spending many, many quiet nights of caressing your words, reading them with my loving eyes, whispering your words like a lover would; I kneeled and begged to come inside your world.  You are not as generous as Mr. Emerson who allows me more access, even at first glance.  After I am allowed into this beautiful place with words so delicate yet resilient and with each sentence my heart skip a beat, you take hold of me right at "A terrible beauty is born."  Although I will be living in a life of chronic remorse (sorry, Mr. Huxley, your letter of apology will be on its way); the desire to put my feelings into words is simply too tempting and too irresistible.  Please do not think that I am in any way being cross with you, dearest Mr. Yeats.  All I have but heartfelt gratitude and headful of absurd, irrational thoughts and, when they are written, they are for you - until the angel Cupid strikes again, that is.
You will be pleased to know, Mr. Yeats, this blog will be a record of my love for you, for Mr. Emerson, for Mr. Carver and for many others who are so brave to share their talents and creation with a world which is not always accepting and is cruel at times.  There will be no censorship on this blog: No one ever wish to offend anyone (knowingly); however, to maintain a tiny haven where expressions and thoughts can be freely exchanged or expressed is the bane of the existence of this blog.  You would agree that: one cannot be honest with one's feeling if there is fear in one's heart.  If one can't be honest, one should at least be kind.  And that is "a terrible beauty."
Rest in peace,  Mr. Yeats, you have not been forgotten.  Many more will search for you and fall in love with you like I do once they read "Easter 1916" or "Sailing to Byzantium" or "The Stolen Child."
Forever yours,
MLH 


p.s.  Please allow me to share Easter 1916 in its entirety; thus, others will have a chance to meet and adore thee.