Bummer

A coldish dull morning--hoed the first row of peas, weeded &c &c--sat hard to mending till evening. The rain which had threatened all day came on just when I was going to walk--

Dear Diary

Wm & John set off into Yorkshire after dinner at ½ past 2 o’clock—cold pork in their pockets. I left them at the turning of the Low-wood bay under the trees. My heart was so full that I could hardly speak to W when I gave him a farewell kiss. I sate a long time upon a stone at the margin of the lake, & after a flood of tears my heart was easier. The lake looked to me I knew not why dull and melancholy, the weltering on the shores seemed a heavy sound. I walked as long as I could amongst the stones of the shore. The wood rich in flowers. A beautiful yellow, palish yellow flower, that looked thick round & double, & smelt very sweet—I supposed it was a ranunculus—Crowfoot, the grassy-leaved Rabbit-toothed white flower, strawberries, Geranium—scentless violet, anemones of two kinds, orchises, primroses. The heckberry very beautiful as a low shrub. The crab coming out. Met a blind man driving a very large beautiful Bull & a cow—he walked with two sticks. Came home by Clappersgate. The valley very green, many sweet views up to Rydale head when I could juggle away the fine houses, but they disturbed me even more than when I have been happier—one beautiful view of the Bridge, without Sir Michaels. Sate down very often, tho’ it was cold. I resolved to write a journal of the time will W & J return, & I set about keeping my resolve because I will not quarrel with myself, & because I shall give Wm Pleasure by it when he comes home again. At Rydale a woman of the villgae, stout & well-dressed, begged a halfpenny—she had never she said done it before—but these hard times!—Arrived at home with a bad head-ach, set some slips of privett. The evening cold had a fire—my face now flame-coloured. It is nine o’clock, I shall soon go to bed. A young woman begged at the door—she had come from Manchester on Sunday morn with two shillings & a slip of paper which she supposed a Bank note—it was a cheat. She had buried her husband & three children within a year & a half—All in one grave—burying very dear—paupers all put in one place—20 shillings paid for as much ground as will bury a man—a grave stone to be put over it or the right will be lost—11/6 each time the ground is opened. Oh! that I had a letter from William!

If I Die Before I Wake

Please have Saint-Saens' "Le Cygne" played at my funeral.

I hope at least I never have to say "Saint-Saens" aloud -- I have no idea if the two components of the name are pronounced the same, or not.

Paradise Lost Ill-Gained

Second in a series of tidbits I picked and (mis)took up listening to a free recording of Paradise Lost.

All but the wakeful nightingale,
To know no more is woman's happiest knowledge:
Blown up with high conceits
Up he starts,
Answering scorn with scorn.
Felt how aweful goodness is,
Your glory will be won or else be lost.
Unlicensed from his bonds in hell,
All hell breaks loose.
O sacred name the faithful is profaned,
Lest on the threshing floor his hoped for sheaves prove chaff,
Where thou art weighed and showed how light,
Airy light from pure digestion bred,
Heaven's last best gift.
Why sleepst thou Eve? Now is the pleasant time.
His dewy locks distilled ambrosia,
He plucked, he tasted,
Could not help but taste--
Best image of myself and dearer half,
So all was cleared,
Duly paid in various style,
Rising or falling still advances praise
Among sweet dews
To check fruitless embraces,
To adorn his barren leaves,
To respite his day labor with repast or with repose.
Nor delayed the winged saint,
Self-opened wide on golden hinges turning,
Not disrelish,
By disburdening grows more fruitful
And superfluous moist consumes.
Not to mix tastes,
Pressed she tempers dulcet creams,
Grooms besmeared with gold;
But Eve undecked--
Thus began our author.

Paradise Lost Found Object

Unexampled love,
Translated saints,
Embryos and idiots,
Unpeopled and untrod,
Seemed other worlds
(Or other worlds they seemed):
Potable gold,
Objects distant far,
Chiefly man his chief delight and favor;
While wisdom waits suspicion sleeps at heaven's gate.
Order from disorder flung,
What could be less than to afford him praise
And understood not that a grateful mind by owing owes not
But still pays both owing and discharged?
Evil be thou my good,
Artificer of fraud,
Disfigured more than could befall spirit of happy sort,
As he supposed, all-observed, unseen,
Hairy sides with thicket overgrown grotesque and wild--
Access denied.
Insuperable height of lofty shade,
Goodliest trees,
Odorous sweets,
Fruit of vegetable gold,
Knowledge of good but dear by knowing ill
Gently creeps luxuriant,
A whole day's journey high.
Unadorned golden tresses
Wreathed his lithe proboscis
From his lofty stand on that high tree,
Sole partner and sole part of all these joys.
Let us not think hard this easy prohibition,
When from sleep I first awaked
With unexperienced thought
Less amiably mild than that smooth watery image,
Manly grace and wisdom which alone is truly fair.