Winter to Spring
By Irvin W. Underhill
Did not I remember that my hair is grey
With only a fringe of it left,
I'd follow your footsteps from wee break of day
Till night was of moon-light bereft.
Your eyes wondrous fountains of joy and of youth
Remind me of days long since flown,
My sweetheart, I led to the altar of truth,
But then the gay spring was my own.
Now winter has come with its snow and its wind
And made me as bare as its trees,
Oh, yes, I still love, but it's only in mind,
For I'm fast growing weak at the knees.
Your voice is as sweet as the song of a bird,
Your manners are those of the fawn,
I dream of you, darling,—oh, pardon, that word,
From twilight to breaking of dawn.
Your name in this missive you'll search for in vain,
Nor mine at the finis, I'll fling,
For winter must suffer the bliss and the pain
In secret for loving the spring.
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Wednesday felt weirdly quiet, which I realized around midday was because, despite beautiful weather, there was not a lot of cicada noise. It seems like we are in the final days of Brood X for this 17-year cycle, which seems sadder than it did 17 years ago when it seemed inconceivable that our kids might not be around to see a single one of the next emergence. One of my friends couldn't come to our usual Wednesday lunchtime chat because of work but it was lovely to talk to the other two.
We went out to pick up some things at the library, to get gas, and to buy some food, after which we went for a walk and again noted the relative absence of cicadas though I did rescue a couple from the road. Then we had dinner and watched Loki, which again was awesome -- Hiddleston's performance when he finds out about Bad Things in his non-variant timeline is amazing, and my personal theory is that the Timekeepers are already all dead. in a snow mood, so from Washington's Crystal Mountain, skiiers!
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