Some Frost with some Larkin

[Achebe]

 let us look to 700-odd years ago, when all poets were beloved of milkmaids and other demonstrative demoiselles, but the language they wrote in can only be called English by virtue of it having been written occasionally in a garret in Cornwall, pining across the centuries for an Arthurian figment.

Can I just stand back and admire what you've written for the sheer wit of it? It's almost like you're English  , or an English teacher...