By Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time’s eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death’s despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
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I spent a lot of Thursday catching up -- I still had filing to get done after all the scanning yesterday, and various appointments to make and chores to do. It rained for most of the day -- it was still drizzling when we left to take a walk in the afternoon, the eagles were in a tree in the park -- but as sunset approached, the sunlight penetrated the clouds enough to turn the sky a glorious pink.
I chatted with my Thursday night crowd, then we watched the new episode of Reacher, which was extremely violent and didn't even let women kick ass. Now I'm watching more of The Morning Show, which is ten times as emotional without needing to shoot anyone; we're at the very end of the first season. Here are some of the animal and flower lights at the Bellevue Botanical Garden holiday show:
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