By Jan Struther
By the red furnace stands
Apollo mute,
Holding in upraised hands
His iron flute.
Slowly from back and brow
The bright sweat drips;
He sets the clarion now
Light to his lips,
And ever, as he blows,
Without a sound
His molten music flows,
Golden and round.
Never from herald's breath
In brazen horn,
Telling of strife and death
Or of peace new-born;
From silver clarinet
By fingers small
To lips of ruby set
In raftered hall;
From jilted shepherd's reed
Plaintively proving
How he in very deed
Must die of loving–
Never from all these came
A music sweeter
Than this bright sphere of flame
With neither sound nor name,
Cadence nor metre,
That steadily, as he blows
On his iron flute,
Trembles and swells and glows,
Gold-amber, amber-rose,
In melody mute.
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It was 60 degrees on Wednesday! Nice enough that a walk in the park was practically required, so we went, though everything is very brown at this time of year. I also had a neighbor loan me a screener of Loving, so we watched that while doing computer chores -- superb performances, lots of emotion -- there's no big speech like Katherine Goble's in Hidden Figures, the focus is less on the legal arguments than the excruciating treatment of people who just wanted to live as a family.
Maddy did not have work, so she came with us to the food store and worked on homework. After dinner she watched the new episode of The Magicians while we caught up on The Young Pope, which remains very crazy (and probably super-offensive to religious Catholics, but as an outsider, it's a really interesting look at what happens when an ordinary guy receives the ability to speak infallibly). Here are some of Chihuly's baskets and macchia from Chihuly Garden and Glass in Seattle:
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