nostalgia

[incandescens]

Due to a sudden spasm of nostalgia, I'm rereading some of the Saint-Germain books by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. I suspect that within a couple of days I will get bored by the hero constantly losing the temporary heroine, but for the moment I am indulging in historical wallow.

Work has started to kick into gear again; the Easter slowdown is over.

Why is there so much beautiful yarn out there? And why can't I knit faster? (I think they must be right and there is something in the yarn fumes.)

---

THE ORACLES

'Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,
And mute's the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,
And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.

I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;
And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking
That she and I should surely die and never live again.

Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;
But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.
'Tis true there's better booze than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;
And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.

The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;
Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air,
And he that stands will die for nought, and home there's no returning.
The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.

-- A.E. Housman

Comments

[marith.livejournal.com]

What's really getting to me is that neko_san dyes and spins her own yarn. Every time I see her she has two or three new gorgeous, unique bundles. It is more than mortal woman can resist. I've asked diony to teach me to knit.

[incandescens]

Join us on the dark yet strangely fluffy side.