incandescens (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
incandescens) wrote2007-04-03 01:41 am
incandescens) wrote2007-04-03 01:41 am
edged with milk chocolate
This has been an irritating Monday, not helped by the fact that the coworker on my left has a very vigorous cold -- not her fault, but it hardly inspires the spirits -- and by some remarkably irritating queries.
What do I have to do before the weekend? I'm sure that there is something and that I have forgotten it. Shame on me. I try to remember, but nothing comes to mind except the mocking dance of chocolate eggs. Too soon comes the feast, and then after that, bitter repentance.
But strangely sweet bitter repentance, edged with milk chocolate.
(You can tell it's getting late here, can't you.)
---
Song at the Year's Turning
Shelley dreamed it. Now the dream decays.
The props crumble; the familiar ways
Are stale with tears trodden underfoot.
The heart's flower withers at the root.
Bury it then, in history's sterile dust.
The slow years shall tame your tawny lust.
Love deceived him; what is there to say
The mind brought you by a better way
To this despair? Lost in the world's wood
You cannot stanch the bright menstrual blood.
The earth sickens; under naked boughs
The frost comes to barb your broken vows.
Is there blessing? Light's peculiar grace
In cold splendour robes this tortured place
For strange marriage. Voices in the wind
Weave a garland where a mortal sinned.
Winter rots you; who is there to blame?
The new grass shall purge you in its flame.
-- R. S. Thomas
What do I have to do before the weekend? I'm sure that there is something and that I have forgotten it. Shame on me. I try to remember, but nothing comes to mind except the mocking dance of chocolate eggs. Too soon comes the feast, and then after that, bitter repentance.
But strangely sweet bitter repentance, edged with milk chocolate.
(You can tell it's getting late here, can't you.)
---
Song at the Year's Turning
Shelley dreamed it. Now the dream decays.
The props crumble; the familiar ways
Are stale with tears trodden underfoot.
The heart's flower withers at the root.
Bury it then, in history's sterile dust.
The slow years shall tame your tawny lust.
Love deceived him; what is there to say
The mind brought you by a better way
To this despair? Lost in the world's wood
You cannot stanch the bright menstrual blood.
The earth sickens; under naked boughs
The frost comes to barb your broken vows.
Is there blessing? Light's peculiar grace
In cold splendour robes this tortured place
For strange marriage. Voices in the wind
Weave a garland where a mortal sinned.
Winter rots you; who is there to blame?
The new grass shall purge you in its flame.
-- R. S. Thomas