By John Keats
O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phoebus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.
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It was unseasonably warm but rainy on Tuesday, so I did not have an eventful day outdoors. I had a quiet morning getting work done; after lunch, we dropped off Maddy at the mall so she could return some things, went to the park while waiting for her, then picked her up and went to the food store. I took a walk around the neighborhood before dinner in between bouts of drizzle, which was lovely in the temperate weather.
We watched The Flash's part of the CW's four-night DC event but I have to admit that apart from cheerful Supergirl, I didn't care about what was going on with any of the angsting, self-involved heroes. For some reason I can put up better with the angsting of the self-involved nobles of Versailles, whose season finale we watched afterward! Vultures by the water, on the rocks, and in the sky at Great Falls last weekend:
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