By Henrik Ibsen
Translated by Fydell Edmund Garrett
O skies that were brighter
Turned he his prows;
To gods that were lighter
Made he his vows.
The snow-land's mountains
Sank in the deep;
Sunnier fountains
Lulled him to sleep.
He burns his vessels,
The smoke flung forth
On blue cloud-trestles
A bridge to the north.
From the sun-warmed lowland
Each night that betides,
To the huts of the snow-land
A horseman rides.
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The poem is in honor of the fact that on Sunday, my family and Dementordelta are going to see John Gabriel Borkman at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. (I have had to give up my fantasy that Geoffrey Rush will be in the seat next to us checking out the venue before Diary of a Madman opens because I'm sure he'll be at the Golden Globe Awards, sigh.) Saturday was very uneventful here because Paul has been sick since Friday night, and we wanted to make sure he spent all day recovering, so other than getting older son to and from robotics, we didn't go anywhere.
We did, however watch the excellent match-up that was the Ravens-Steelers playoff game, and although it did not end the way I wanted it to, it was exciting throughout (and I will root for Pittsburgh over either the Patriots or the Jets, anyway). Then Delta arrived and we all decided we had to watch Mystery Men since she hadn't seen it in years and two members of my family hadn't seen it at all. We were rooting for Green Bay, being in their debt after they knocked Michael Vick and the Eagles out of the playoffs, so we were all happy with the score of their game against Atlanta. And I would write more but I have to get to bed so I can be bright-eyed for Alan Rickman tomorrow! Here are the handful of photos I took during last week's teeny tiny snowstorm:
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