But odds are you’re not much for chapter or verse. Most men aren’t. The few exceptions out there, in fact, tend to recoil at flesh and blood, preferring the rarified over that which is real. They often even hate getting their hands dirty.
So the good thing is you’re normal and thankfully can remark, “But for the grace of God, there go I.” You’re able to fix things and build a garden shed or the like. Yet, why settle for life as a wildebeest – just one of a number – when you can be a lion instead?
Here’s my point. If you couple an immersive British literary tour with deerstalking in the ‘Fairest Isle,’ then you might return a better man, one with his priorities in line. Reading the news while drinking your morning coffee is no longer enough. Something that always has been far more important is now on your mind, and thus your new breakfast custom might be to recite works of the Metaphysical Poets to your wife.
What, that doesn’t interest you? Okay, but what if it causes her to love ya in turn like never before, believing you to be one of a kind – a real catch? Well I know. That’s a bit of a stretch. Even so, British literary deerstalking pays dividends, given that words always trump chocolates and flowers. Why not give it a try then?
Atop Burnham Hill I delay
By sweetbrier astride his grave
And glance across at Fort Ti while
All about, yellowjackets fly
That, being not queens, by early
November will stutter and die.
Maybe old Burnham held the view
A man rest upon the height of land
To see about what lies ahead.
Very well.
What is clear, then, is nothing lasts.
Neither the Mohawk, nor the French,
Nor the British sustained control.
Even the high-minded Yankee
Fond of reforming is proving
The same as all those before him.
(His sons take the ground for granted.)