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XIV
by A.E. Housman
There pass the careless people
That call their souls their own:
Here by the road I loiter,
How idle and alone.
Ah, past the plunge of plummet,
In seas I cannot sound,
My heart and soul and senses,
World without end, are drowned.
His folly has not fellow
Beneath the blue of day
That gives to man or woman
His heart and soul away.
There flowers no balm to sain him
From east of earth to west
That's lost for everlasting
The heart out of his breast.
Here by the labouring highway
With empty hands I stroll:
Sea-deep, till doomsday morning,
Lie lost my heart and soul.
SCENE II. The forest.
Enter ORLANDO, with a paper
ORLANDO
Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,
Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway.
O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books
And in their barks my thoughts I'll character;
That every eye which in this forest looks
Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.
Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree
The fair, the chaste and unexpressive she.
Exit
Winter: My Secret
by Christina Rossetti
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
my sister came over for a labor day cookout today. while her husband entertained the folks indoors, we rambled around outdoors.
rambled, that is, until we discovered the bumblebees enjoying their own backyard feast in the flower beds. they were so cute, making their way across the flower heads, *nom nom nom*, but it was the big one that impressed us and halted us in our ramble. he was a massive inch in length, and fat and shiny and fuzzy and very very focussed.
we decided he was so large that he no longer could rightly be called a "bumblebee", that most assuredly he must be a "BOMBLEBEE". our giggling must have irritated the fine fellow, because he lifted off and lumbered through the air to a further flower. the hum of his wings was so deep we decided his first name was "harley".
"harley bomblebee, ma'am, at your service. but just let me finish eating this first."
then i remembered that when i met my former husband back in college, he had sought to impress me by petting bumblebees. could this be attempted? would i have the skill? mr. bomblebee's back was so wide, and so visibly furry, i knew i had to dare it.
success!
but a second attempt seemed to exhaust his patience with us. i had barely brushed his back when, in a sudden pique, he thrashed one black leg up at my finger, "geroff!"
abashed, delighted, and amused, we did, and left him and all his smaller kin to their picnic, while we returned to ours.
