August 7, 2011

FARMHOUSE

The green felt table, strewn with cards,
stands in a stuffy room.
A light mist coats the darkened yards
– a layer of perfume.

The gentlemen are on the porch
weaving yarns and smoking.
Their sweethearts talk and clean the pots
and plot the next day’s cooking.

The clock strikes ten. The womenfolk
can hear the talk and smell the smoke.

It has been a bad year for corn.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?

- The Lays of Ancient Rome

✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

- Lord Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam