By William Shakespeare
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance filled up his line,
Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.
I spent a delightful Monday with dementordelta. We had decided we needed a Rupert Everett/Colin Firth day, so after going out to pick up hummus and grape leaves for ourselves and shawerma and fatayers for my children, we came back here to watch Another Country and The Importance of Being Earnest. Then we took a walk around the neighborhood to enjoy the gorgeous weather and see if we could see any wildlife -- there were a couple of bunnies out -- and came back to watch Brand New Day, a rather wacky Australian musical starring Geoffrey Rush as a spanking-happy priest. It was all awesome.
When Delta left, I went to pick Adam up from the first day of his summer art class -- Paul had driven him there while I was scanning George VI photos from Delta's magazines -- and on the way home we saw a deer and two tiny fawns walking into the woods at the edge of our neighborhood. We had Mexican food for dinner, watched a couple of episodes of Relic Hunter, then watched Stewart and Colbert. I have to get up very early Tuesday to take younger son to get his wisdom teeth pulled, so I will post only one photo, some ducklings from Baltimore's harbor during the Star-Spangled Sailabration: