Absence

Sometimes absence makes the heart grow melancholy. I've been away on holiday and enjoying the mysteries of the natural world. Now that I'm back at my flat, the thrill is gone. I have to go back to work, deal with unpleasant people again, withstand those trivializing details, surround myself with the imaginationless and insensate.

Ay, in the very temple of delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous
tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

John Keats