By Henrietta Cordelia Ray
The subtlest strain a great musician weaves,
Cannot attain in rhythmic harmony
To music in his soul. May it not be
Celestial lyres send hints to him? He grieves
That half the sweetness of the song, he leaves
Unheard in the transition. Thus do we
Yearn to translate the wondrous majesty
Of some rare mood, when the rapt soul receives
A vision exquisite. Yet who can match
The sunset’s iridescent hues? Who sing
The skylark’s ecstasy so seraph-fine?
We struggle vainly, still we fain would catch
Such rifts amid life’s shadows, for they bring
Glimpses ineffable of things divine.
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Friday was pretty uneventful -- slept late because a cat was on top of my legs, did a bunch of chores, took a walk since it was nice out though chilly. Sorted a bunch of photos pulled out while I was fiddling with scanners earlier in the week. Pulled out my DSLR to determine what I need to make it more efficient. We had dinner with my parents, then came home and fed cats.
We finally watched this week's Doctor Who -- I agree with complaints that it was heavy-handed -- and the first episode of The New Pope, which is just as insane as The Young Pope, followed by the Graham Norton in which Daniel Radcliffe famously answered Miriam Margolyes' question about the state of his foreskin with "I'm Jewish!" From the C&O Canal last month:
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