not to say ruts

That mistake I discovered yesterday about the untravelled bourne—I’ve been making that for years. There’s another one I say, too, and I’m aware of it but I keep doing it. I mix and cross two poems. The first is Break Break Break by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892):

Break break break

On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!

But I continue the quatrain with:

And may there be no moaning of the bar

When I set out to sea.

You see, it even scans and rhymes. But the second two lines are from Tennyson’s Crossing The Bar. I have mixed them up for years and they make perfect sense to me. My brain pathways have become comfortable ruts.

Just so you know.