The profound effect poetry can have on me

The other day I was sitting in my Spanish Literature class, waiting for the professor to arrive.

(The professors know that the majority of students don't make it to class on time, so they deliberately wait 5 or 10 minutes before turning up at the classroom to give everyone else a chance to get there first. Of course, the students have twigged onto this and so adjust their between-classes-cigarette-break accordingly so that they still manage to turn up 5 to 10 minutes after the professor anyway. Ah, good old Spain).

As I was sitting there, for whatever reason, I began to have some kind of allergic reaction. I started to sneeze ferociously every five minutes, continuing through the entire lecture. I wasn't doing it so much as to put off the lecturer, but it was certainly putting me off. I was trying so hard not to sneeze, and then sneezing so hard, that my eyes began to well up with tears.

As tears streamed down my cheeks, the Spaniard next to me must have wondered why the Golden Age poem we were studying was so particularly upsetting for me...

Anyway, all my airwaves were cleared up not long after the lesson and I'm happy to report that I'm breathing freely once again. Maybe I'm just allergic to that subject. Or maybe to poetry...