One of the intriguing things about poetry is that the reader is left to make her own deductions regarding the poet’s meaning and I’ve had some fun with that. Here is an extract from a longer poem by Sir Walter Scott (1771 – 1832) which is a perfect example:
Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun
Must separate Constance from the nun
Oh! what a tangled web we weave
When first we practise to deceive!
A Palmer too! No wonder why
I felt rebuked beneath his eye
There is a lot of bullshit floating around. Don’t get caught up in it.