So, the Tournament of Champions wound up with this Final Jeopardy question, 19th Century Poets:
He wrote "He looked upon the garish dayI was shaking my head throughout the thirty seconds, thinking this is the Final Jeopardy question for the champions? This?
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die."
And then the answers came.
And the dominating champ says ... Shelley.
I memorized that poem in ninth grade. "The Ballad of Reading Gaol", by Oscar Wilde.
It's weird, actually. When they know something I don't, I wonder how they know all that stuff. When I know something they don't, it startles me. I guess I don't think of what I know as "all that stuff", even though I've been known to joke that my head is stuffed with useless facts...