Good morning everyone.
Posted on 06/25/2005 9:22:33 PM PDT by Soaring Feather
Well said. Thank you.
Welcome to the Lair.
Thank You, I did click. Most interesting article.
Uuugh... It's still morning.
Yes, I think so.:-)
How are you??
I'm... good. Bored, as is usual for me. Been waiting
for more rhymes to come to mind (what's new).
How are you?
I'm well thanks.
Not too, much new, waiting for this dark, damp weather to pass. Are you stuck with the same weather down your way.
It's been hanging around all week.
Well, it was cool & damp yesterday. The sun is shining brightly
today. However, from my point of view sunlight is eeeevil.
Ah, yes, The Lair's Goth Gal.
You and Radu.
Well, it doesn't help that I can get sun poisoning
in half an hour... WITH sun-block. I'm so talented.
Oh dear, that is a problem.
Yeah, my dad bought me SPF 50 sunblock... but I haven't used it yet.
Yeah, I don't really have anywhere to go anyway.
We have no yard whatsoever, so I can't garden...
otherwise my mom & I would. We had plants
out front, but our neighbor ripped everything
out & told us that was his, the back was ours...
He uses the back too.
Not a good scene. Is there a porch where you could maybe do some flower pot gardening?? You know tomatoes in pots, etc.
No, the neighbor claims the front porch & our landlord
has ripped apart our back porch. We're not even allowed
to hang up bird feeders, he has his workers rip them down.
They throw everything around.
A little encouragment to stir the muse.
Memory
A PEN--to register; a key--
That winds through secret wards
Are well assigned to Memory
By allegoric Bards.
As aptly, also, might be given
A Pencil to her hand;
That, softening objects, sometimes even
Outstrips the heart's demand;
That smooths foregone distress, the lines
Of lingering care subdues,
Long-vanished happiness refines,
And clothes in brighter hues;
Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works
Those Spectres to dilate
That startle Conscience, as she lurks
Within her lonely seat.
Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast,
In purity were such,
That not an image of the past
Should fear that pencil's touch!
Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene,
Age steal to his allotted nook
Contented and serene;
With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain rivers, where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening.
William Wordsworth, (1823)
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