By Emily Dickinson
Good night! which put the candle out?
A jealous zephyr, not a doubt.
Ah! friend, you little knew
How long at that celestial wick
The angels labored diligent;
Extinguished, now, for you!
It might have been the lighthouse spark
Some sailor, rowing in the dark,
Had importuned to see!
It might have been the waning lamp
That lit the drummer from the camp
To purer reveille!
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Other than running younger son back and forth and back and forth to school and home because the play for which he is doing tech, Is He Dead?, opened tonight, and posting a review of one of Deep Space Nine's many masterpieces, "In the Hands of the Prophets", I spent most of the day doing things either too boring or too stupid to be worth posting about, and not feeling great besides. So rather than belaboring how we ran out of milk at breakfast or thanking everyone who sent me a blue dragon on LiveJournal, I shall post proof that spring is here and go to bed:
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