Sarah Morgan
What, indeed?
It’s been far too long. If you know me, you’ll understand why. If not, I’m sorry.
Starting Sunday, I’ll be in England for 11 days – off work for 16 – and I’m really looking forward to it. It’s a good time to get out of here. And maybe, moreover, to get out of myself.
While I’m there, I’ll be here:
So in that vein, here’s something that appealed to me today. Sorry if you’re not up for the poetry. But it felt like fall, like being a little tired and sad and worn out, and thinking about being somewhere other than where you are.
Sonnet LXXIII
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
