By Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
--------
It's gorgeous and cool again and I had a lovely travel-planning day, though there were things like laundry and shopping to contend with. (It's all good, I started watching The Big Short while I was doing the living room stuff and was enjoying it enough to want to see the end, some I made a pair of earrings out of old glass beads.) Plus I did a couple of raid hour raids and caught a shiny Giratina.
We watched the first competitive episode this season of The Masked Singer, which I enjoy as the crack it is, the only show I really like following on Twitter while it's airing, then we watched the first episode of Stumptown, which succeeds mostly on the strength of Cobie Smulders' performance. I love Annmarie Garden's Artsfest in part because there are so many nautical-themed crafts on display:
No comments:
Post a Comment