By C.S. Lewis
When the flowery hands of spring
Forth their woodland riches fling,
Through the meadows, through the valleys
Goes the satyr carolling.
From the mountain and the moor,
Forest green and ocean shore
All the faerie kin he rallies
Making music evermore.
See! the shaggy pelt doth grow
On his twisted shanks below,
And his dreadful feet are cloven
Though his brow be white as snow—
Though his brow be clear and white
And beneath it fancies bright,
Wisdom and high thoughts are woven
And the musics of delight,
Though his temples too be fair
Yet two horns are growing there
Bursting forth to part asunder
All the riches of his hair.
Faerie maidens he may meet
Fly the horns and cloven feet,
But, his sad brown eyes with wonder
Seeing-stay from their retreat.
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Laptop is wrangled! That is, I'm sure there are a lot of little things I'll want to tweak, but it's finished syncing with my Dropbox and Google Drive and it's up to speed now and I am loving the fast browser and backlit keyboard and superb track pad! I need to figure out why every program I own adjusts its fonts for the screen size except Photoshop, in which the menus are so small I can barely read them, and I need to figure out the advantages of OpenOffice vs. LibreOffice because I'm not paying for MS Word on yet another computer.
My day was good in other ways: the weather was gorgeous, I walked in the park, then I had a lot of shopping to do and it was all successful (Adam's bike, new towels, some holiday gifts, and, um, Taylor Swift's Reputation, plus the food store). This week's The Orville was not my favorite -- c'mon, Brannon Braga, mediocre TNG holodeck episodes are not the ones you should be trying to recreate -- nor was the Steelers' fourth-quarter blowout after a relatively close game with the Titans. From Hillwood this spring, little musical satyrs:
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