By Louise Chandler Moulton
The ocean beats against the stern, dumb shore
The stormy passion of its mighty heart, —
The sky, where no stars shine, is black above,
And thou and I sit from the world apart.
We two, with lives no star of hope makes bright, —
Whom bliss forgets, and joy no longer mocks, —
Hark to the wind's wild cry, the sea's complaint,
And break with wind and sea against the rocks.
Sore-wounded, hurled on the dark shore of Fate,
We stretch out helpless hands, and cry in vain, —
Our joy went forth, white-sailed, at dawn of day;
To-night is pitiless for all our pain.
We are not glad of any morn to come,
Since that winged joy we never more shall see, —
But in the passion of the winds and waves
Something there seems akin to thee and me.
They call! Shall we not go, out on that tide,
To touch, perchance, some shore where tempests cease,
Where no wind blows, and storm-torn souls forget
Their past disasters in that utmost peace?
I had a quiet, rainy 9/11 trying to catch up on things that are going to take the rest of the week -- more laundry, hours of fighting with photo programs, cleaning things out of the refrigerator that should have been tossed before we left. The laundry still isn't all folded, let alone put away, so more of the same tomorrow. I was hoping to get the pictures under control while I had a free Shutterfly book coupon, but that's expiring in less than three hours, so no luck there.
After dinner, because I've been in the mood for it since Chinon even though most of the movie was filmed in the south of France and some parts in Britain, we watched The Lion In Winter. It remains as awesome as it was the previous dozens of times I've seen it and I agree with Eleanor that Henry deserves any suffering he gets (I also appreciate knowing that Richard and Philip kicked his butt in their final rebellion, too). Since I'm still working on Chinon photos, here are Étretat's white cliffs: