True Love in this differs from gold and clay,
That to divide is not to take away.
--P.B. Shelley, Epipsychidion


is what I needed to read last night after sunshine went back east to rise and be and the western mountains slumped with sadness. nevermind the fickleness of the author, he was a romantic anyway and I'm not so much of one; I am not so fickle as mister shelley, who was probably something of a bastard and a misogynistic one at that. still, a good rhymester (well, mostly. there was one time he rhymed hope with antelope. it disrupted the romantic reverie I was indulging in and inspired in its stead good hearty 21st century laughter).

still, one wants to read the romantics when one is feeling all wistful and the wist is a simple one of a boy being suddenly gone when once he was here.

la la la la.