I have just stumbled across (through my older sister's blog) the Old English poem conventionally named "The Wanderer". Such a bleak poem full of sorrow. But I love the prescription at the end, which I paraphrase as follows:
"I must never speak the grief of my breast too quickly, unless I already know the remedy."
Because that is a man's role - to hold tightly his concerns to himself, and speak only when solutions have been found.
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