By Edna St. Vincent Millay
White with daisies and red with sorrel
And empty, empty under the sky! -
Life is a quest and love a quarrel -
Here is a place for me to lie.
Daisies dpring from damnèd seeds,
And this red fire that here I see
Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds,
Cursed by farmers thriftily.
But here, unhated for an hour,
The sorrel runs in ragged flame,
The daisy stands, a bastard flower,
Like flowers that bear an honest name.
And here a while, where no wind brings
The baying of a pack athirst,
May sleep the sleep of blessèd things,
The blood too bright, the brow accurst.
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I apologize if you're tired of hearing about goats or baseball, but I'm afraid those have been far and away the highlights of my week. We just watched the Mariners win the AL West -- in part Cal Raleigh's 59th and 60th home runs of the season -- and the only real break I took between the Orioles game and that was going out to see the goats that are eating our neighborhood's overgrown blackberry bushes and other weeds, which I did several other times today. One of the goats is a mom with two kids who occasionally stop eating the reeds to nurse, and it is adorable to watch them at work with her.
Besides watching baseball and doing some computer work, I finally finished The Paris Bookseller, which I ended up rating 4/5 stars because of the number of times it mentions Margaret Anderson and The Little Review though I still think Beach's autobiography tells her story better (it's easy to read between the lines about her anger toward certain men). Now we're watching Gen V -- Cipher may be the most evil of all -- and hopefully will get to the season premiere of Slow Horses before bedtime, though Paul has a colonoscopy tomorrow so he may not last that long tonight.
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