(Shakespeare)
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts - from far where I abide -
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
One of my favourite sonnets. As for the image... isn't he dashing? My new Shakespeare finger puppet has sort of squashed Dostoevsky to the back... momentarily.
6 comments:
That is a beautiful sonnet.
And your new Shakespeare is very dashing...poor Feodor...he's got to be feeling a tad bit jealous.
O sleep! O gentle sleep!
Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody?
2 Henry IV (3.1.7-16)
Oh, I think I have that very same finger puppet somewhere!
I LOVE sleep! I love being in my bed. In fact... I'm headed there right now with a cup of tea. Hurrah!
Willow ~ I moved Shakespeare to the back. Feodor is front and centre, if still a little folorn.
Crista, we might have to get our guys together for a play date! :)
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
(William Shakespeare, Sonnet XXX)
Sigh, that's wonderful R.A.D.
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