Poem for Tuesday and Gilded Age Garments

Sonnet 

By Alice Dunbar-Nelson 

I had not thought of violets late,

The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet

In wistful April days, when lovers mate

And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.

The thought of violets meant florists' shops,

And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;

And garish lights, and mincing little fops

And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines.

So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,

I had forgot wide fields; and clear brown streams;

The perfect loveliness that God has made,—

Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.

And now—unwittingly, you've made me dream

Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.

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It was nearly 100 degrees on Tuesday and I'm not a fan. Even the eagles were quiet, and I didn't walk anywhere in the afternoon. Instead I did some reading, we listened to a recording of Jesus Christ Superstar from the Hollywood Bowl with Cynthia Erivo, Adam Lambert, and Philippa Soo, and my Trek group watched DS9's "The Homecoming" -- the episode I missed when it first aired while giving birth to Daniel -- which remains excellent. 

The Mariners won, we had tacos for Tuesday dinner, then we watched Eyes of Wakanda with Cheryl, which I expected to be mostly action but has some lovely storytelling, particularly the Iliad episode. Now Paul and I are watching more Poldark, which has a lot of dark history but Cornwall is beautiful and the performances are very good. From the Washington State Historical Society's Dressing the Gilded Age exhibit, including this early "selfie":