National Poetry Day

People on the internet keep saying it's national poetry day. I haven't researched this claim or done anything to find out about what national poetry day is about or supposed to mean or represent; instead, I am going to post on my blog the poem which was my favourite as a child. As you will soon see, this was my favourite poem because it is clearly about me and I appear to be dead in it. As you can probably imagine, both of these things filled me with a kind of lusty glee. Here is the poem:

Imogen- Walter De La Mare

Even she too dead! all languor on her brow,
All mute humanity's last simpleness,--
And yet the roses in her cheeks unfallen!
Can death haunt silence with a silver sound?
Can death, that hushes all music to a close,
Pluck one sweet wire scarce-audible that trembles,
As if a little child, called Purity,
Sang heedlessly on of his dear Imogen?
Surely if some young flowers of Spring were put
Into the tender hollow of her heart,
'Twould faintly answer, trembling in their petals.
Poise but a wild bird's feather, it will stir
On lips that even in silence wear the badge
Only of truth. Let but a cricket wake,
And sing of home, and bid her lids unseal
The unspeakable hospitality of her eyes.
O childless soul--call once her husband's name!
And even if indeed from these green hills
Of England, far, her spirit flits forlorn,
Back to its youthful mansion it will turn,
Back to the floods of sorrow these sweet locks
Yet heavy bear in drops; and Night shall see
Unwearying as her stars still Imogen,
Pausing 'twixt death and life on one hushed word.

Hey Tim, remember when we "took drugs?"