theres a great Seamus Heaney poem, whose name I can't be arsed to look up, about when he's a kid he finds all these frogs humping round a pond, and he runs off in disgust, confronted by the nitty gritty power of nature. Poetry experts compare it with the Wordsworth poem about when he steals the boat and is suddenly overawed by the big phallic mountain that dominates the lake.

good old Seamus, great poet.....

I wish I wasn't getting old, and I still cared about all the things I've forgotten.