“But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.”
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Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.
We ought to be beating our chests every day. We ought to look in the mirror, stick out our chests, suck in our bellies, and say, 'Damn, we're Americans, ' and smile.
Some people know that they are so adorable looking, all they have to do is smile and dress up and they get plenty from that. Then there are some of us who, early on, see that that doesn't work. So we joke about it.
A stale article, if you dip it in a good, warm, sunny smile, will go off better than a fresh one that you've scowled upon.