By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
Beautiful snowy Christmas morning, slowly turning to rain. Maybe an inch on the ground and thin on tree branches and leaves. Hallmark could not have created a better holiday morning card.
Last night I rewatched The Indian Runner to review it for GMR. On second viewing it was absolutely devastating -- once I knew what the outcome of certain scenes was going to be, it became impossible to watch them without crying. Last time I was so totally focused on Viggo that I don't think I noticed just how good David Morse's performance is; it's gut-wrenching, especially the scene where he starts crying at the table. I went to bed totally wrung out from it. Now I have to figure out how to make the film's portrayal of the vacuousness of the American dream folklore-relevant in a review.
Secret Diary of Theoden! And no idea how this happened:
Which B-Movie Badass Are You?
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And SPAM! I just had to post this. My uncle sent it to me. 'Tis the season.