By Thomas Wyatt
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
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Wednesday was gorgeous here -- temperatures in the 60s, mostly sunny, light on the water and birds everywhere. I talked to my high school friends in the morning and watched a couple of episodes of Hawkeye with Kristen after lunch -- a treat in all cases since I saw 3/4 of them last month! We took a lovely walk to the beach, then out on the dock, where the ducklings and bunny were hiding but the turtle, heron, and eagles were out.
Then we saw the sorry end of the Orioles-Yankees game, ate dinner, and watched The Masked Singer, which is finally winnowing out the not-really-singers for the season -- I really hope Gumball Machine is connected to Supernatural after "Carry On Wayward Son" -- and now we're watching Shardlake, which is Tudor-era violent and very well acted (oh, Sean Bean, I know by your character's name what's coming for you). Potomac spring flowers:
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