Monday, February 06, 2006
This is the scarf I was so discontented with last Friday. I feel much better about it now. I guess I was just in a mood! And even though the weekend hasn't turned out fantastic, things still look a lot brighter!
It rained Saturday, so we went off to an auction, only to find that the items we were interested in weren't going to be sold that day. So we headed over the mountain to have dinner, shop a little and then planned to head home to watch movies on DVD and stay warm out of the rain. The rain cleared as we were heading into the next county over, but then the little truck gasped, wheezed, and finally crawled over to the side of the road. It was hauled home in shame by a neighbor who has a towing service, and is now back at Wally's, waiting another diagnosis.
I read this poem over the weekend, probably while I was still in the mood. For some reason, though, it said a lot to me. I know people are posting poems here and there; don't know why but this isn't really part of that.
Journey by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind
Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired
Of passing pleasant places! All my life,
Following Care along the dusty road,
Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed;
Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand
Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long
Over my shoulder have I looked at peace;
And now I fain would lie in this long grass
And close my eyes.
Cat birds call
Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk
Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry,
Drawing the twilight close about their throats.
Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines
Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees
Pause in their dance and break the ring for me;
And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread
Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant,
Look back and beckon ere they disappear.
Only my heart, only my heart responds.
Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side
All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot
And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs—
But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach,
And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling,
The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake,
Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road
A gateless garden, and an open path:
My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.
Wish I could write like that.