"He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell."
Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto the Third, #5
Sober reflections for a Monday morning, though I am quite happy.
I have written four or five poems this week --- fantasy types, mostly. The brief acquaintance with Jamaican music and culture a few weeks ago has me dreaming of Jamaica.
And now, for something completely different. :>) From the resident hippie of OC Tech. I'm writing in fragments this morning.
Do we have Writer's Group today? At 5?