A Halloween Haunting
We are not sure of sorrow.
And joy was never sure.
Today will die tomorrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure.
And Love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving,
Whatever gods there be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
that even the weariest river,
winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then sun nor star shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days or things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
Charles Algernon Swinburne, The Garden Of Proserpine, 1866
This is about a third of this startling poem. It has always sounded to
me like an art nouveau stained glass piece by Mucha. Well, that is
today's sunshine and happiness from everybody's favorite unbalanced
anthro rabbit. Well, except Bugs. He is just the best!
What's up Doc, indeed.
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