By William Shakespeare
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
My pleasures yesterday consisted of eating tortilla soup plus cruising a bookstore with
...and very nearly there. The moon looks a dull red when the reflected sunlight finally vanishes but I was unable to figure out how to set my camera to capture it. (Here are photos of last November's lunar eclipse.)
And since I'm spamming with news events, The Washington Post's photo of USS Constellation and Pride of Baltimore heading to Annapolis yesterday for the Constellation's celebration of her 150th birthday, the first time she has left the harbor of Baltimore since she arrived 50 years ago:
Congratulations Boston fans! Am bracing myself for the next sign of the apocalypse. *g*