When passion’s trance is overpast,
If tenderness of truth should last
Or live—whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep—
I should not weep, I should not weep!
If were enough to feel, and see
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly . . .
And dream the rest—and burn and be
The secret food of fires unseen,
Could thou but be what thou hast been!
After the slumber of the year
The woodland violets reappear;
All things revive in field or grove
And sky and sea, but two, which move
And form all others—life and love.—
Christmas is a hellish time for me.
Merry Christmas to the normal folks who don’t have this problem. It’s off to the parents, to make believe I’m happy for a while. Nothing like a three and a half hour drive past brown and dying hills on a torn-up freeway to put you in the holiday spirit.