By Katharine Lee Bates
Grim stones whose gray lips keep your secret well,
Our hands that touch you touch an ancient terror,
An ancient woe, colossal citadel
Of some fierce faith, some heaven-affronting error.
Rude-built, as if young Titans on this wold
Once played with ponderous blocks a striding giant
Had brought from oversea, till child more bold
Tumbled their temple down with foot defiant.
Upon your fatal altar Redbreast combs
A fluttering plume, and flocks of eager swallows
Dip fearlessly to choose their April homes
Amid your crevices and storm-beat hollows.
Even so in elemental mysteries,
Portentous, vast, august, uncomprehended,
Do we dispose our little lives for ease,
By their unconscious courtesies befriended.
Paul worked from home on a very rainy Monday because until about dinnertime, we only had one vehicle. I took it out after lunch to do some chores while he was on a conference call, then he took it to the dentist in the late afternoon, and eventually we went to pick up the van together. I am so stressed about the election that I ate junk food all day.
We caught up on Sunday's Supergirl -- I've appreciated how political this season is -- and watched tonight's Legends of Tomorrow, which I didn't watch regularly before this season but it's been hilarious. Then we put on the Titans-Cowboys game, which was somewhat cheering. Here is the glorious Foamhenge, moved to Cox Farms from Natural Bridge, Virginia: