Later, my father read the poem to me as well. He, like my grandfather was a mathematician by profession, but an autodidact as far as English literature is concerned, an omnivorous, eclectic if somewhat eccentric reader of any book he could lay his hands on. The fact that those two South Indian Brahmin gentlemen, related to each other only by marriage should have, as far as I know, independently of each other read me this particular poem might mean something. A metaphysical portent, perhaps.
I was reminded of this poem when I recently heard a talk by a colleague on Demodex folliculorum, a microscopic little mite that lives in the hair follicles of your face, particularly those associated with your eyelashes. It sleeps through most of the day, and at night it wanders over your face, devouring dead keratinocytes that your skin has exfoliated during the day. Most, if not ...
