Twas brillig in the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogroves
And the mome raths outgrabe
No, I don't know what it means either, but it sounds pretty. The whole poem is a fantasy epic in short form nonsense. You gotta love Lewis Carroll, weird pedophilic tendencies notwithstanding. He fell in love with the real Alice when she was about eight or nine. There's no report that he molested her, but he asked her to marry him at least twice after she was "of age." Eventually, she joined a convent. Became a total religious nut.
Man, I love the Victorians. And the Romantics, actually. People seem to think they're quite different, but they're not, really. Victorians are just disappointed Romantics. Well, they're kind of disappointed in general. Repressed. In the most desperate ways, which makes for a lot of interesting poetry. They're sort of thirsting for this romantic fantasyland of love, earth, singing birdies, dark shadows, and ghosts, but they find everything is grey. There's not much light or dark, which depresses them equally. Oh, and they desperately want a God from Whom they feel hopelessly disconnected. We, I mean contemporary people, actually have a lot in common with them. Not that I'm an expert.
I just love Gerard Manley Hopkins. Oh, and Michael Field. Not so much because Field wrote fantastic poetry, but because he was actually two women. Lesbian lovers who were also aunt and niece. How messed is that? Robert Browning called them his "Greek ladies." Apparently they were very attached to their dog, whose name I can't recall. They wrote tons of poetry about him. And after the dog died, they went back to the Anglican church and repented of their sinful lifestyle, though they continued to live together. Seriously, you gotta love the Victorians. Days of Our Lives be damned.