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.—Percy Shelley
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.
