Sunday Apr 27, 2003

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Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,--you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.

--Oscar Wilde from "Her Voice"

Irish poets. Such a silly lot.

I am rendered blind and motionless, but it feels so lovely. Wake me on Friday.
VIEW 27 of 27 COMMENTS
clara:
A certain someone showed me a few choice samples from an experiment that will soon be shared with a larger audience. Was that cryptic enough? Can we have a tea party in June? That sounds like a perfect day to me.
mykra:
What about Irish filmakers?

E: Are their any other kind of Irish? Peh! And the spoof is going to rock! It's going to have dwarves, and snow white, and dead dwarves, and religious overtones! It will be the single funniest thing I have done in a good week if I pull it off right.

[Edited on Apr 28, 2003]

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