By Any Name.
Dick Cavett described it best.
He said at its worst,
if there was a cure for it
on your bedside table
and you simply had to reach out and take it,
it would require a strength you did not have.
Others afflicted have weighted in.
To Sylvia Plath it felt like a bell jar.
Black dogs is popular but not mean enough.
The dogs would have to be rabid, loose,
Slough of despond from a Welsh pundit sounds almost like
a poetic interlude.
The mean reds was Billie Holiday’s.
But sorry, Lady Day,
Country singers tell us time and again about
their plain old blues.
From William Styron came
And he should know.
It’s a thief, the sorriest kind.
It’s wilier than me, and
It steals my wit, my smile,
my every trace of ease, my very heart.
And turns out my lights
before it leaves.