Timeless truth: Poetry and nature go hand in hand

The lapidary line of the tubercular John Keats is almost a cliché — “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” writes Damien Enright.

Everybody has heard it, but no line better describes the view outside my window on these autumn mornings, with mist hanging over the fields and the bay.

Poetry is not a ‘fairy’ thing, as some of the machismo men in my class at school would have it. It was cause for suspicion if one liked it at all. I found it entertaining: in fact, of all the stuff I learned, only poetry and geography seized my imagination.